


Love in the Time of Chili’s $5 Monthly Margaritas

by bluebacchus



Series: The Chili's Anniversary Collection [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: "Romance", "tozer is going through a marxist phase", $5 margarita of the month, (no one dies), (no one important dies), 3 weddings and a night at chili's, Attempted Murder, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Jartnell's fragile bones, M/M, MILFs, Marriage Proposal, Pube Heist, Rimming, Romantic Comedy, Slow dancing to Cyndi Lauper, Successful murder, TAKING FITZJAMES TO CHILI'S TONIGHT, The Wedding Gun, Weddings, french canadians, hawaiian shirts, i believe in topson rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus
Summary: A week in the lives of the staff of the Sir John Franklin Memorial Hospital.ORThe “taking Fitzjames to Chili’s tonight” AU that the world deserves, set in the world of a medical drama





	1. Platinum Presidente

**Author's Note:**

> [Based on this post](https://draculas-gay-daughter.tumblr.com/post/185094362258/i-have-no-excuse-for-this)

_Thursday_

“Ed,” Thomas whispered, nudging the sleeping body next to him. “Edward, wake up.”

Edward groaned and rolled over.

“Dr. Edward Little, you’re needed in Emergency,” Thomas said in his best imitation of the hospital intercom. Edward jerked awake. On being greeted with the relative darkness of his and Thomas’s bedroom instead of the fluorescent lights of the staff lounge, he groaned again, this time louder, longer and altogether more dramatic.

“What is it, Tom? It’s-“ he reached over to the nightstand, checking his phone for the time. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it?” Thomas scooted closer to Edward, wrapping his limbs around the warm body and resting his head on Edward’s chest. “I haven’t slept.”

Edward made a sympathetic sound and brushed a hand through Thomas’s dishevelled hair. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Francis.”

“Oh God,” Edward sighed. “What did he make you do this time?”

“It’s what he _didn’t_ make me do. His and James’s anniversary is in a week and he hasn’t said anything about dinner reservations.”

“And this is why you woke me up in the middle of the night?”

Thomas nuzzled his face into the hair on Edward’s chest. “Yes, darling.”

“Well,” Edward said slowly, “maybe he made reservations on his own.” Even as he said it, he doubted it. Francis Crozier was notoriously useless when it came to romance.

“This is the same man who forgot how to unbutton his trousers and had me do it for him every time he went to the toilet.”

“He’s sober now,” Edward rationalized. “You really should have gotten a raise for that.”

Thomas hummed, the vibration in his throat softly rolling against Edward’s chest.

“I don’t want to overstep, but I’m quite sure James is expecting something big this year.”

“To make up for last year?”

Both men shuddered. A fourth year anniversary party had never gone so awry in the history of fourth year anniversary parties.

After a brief moment of silence to mourn the untimely death of Jocko the Monkey, Edward continued.

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to overstep. Haven’t you called Francis ‘dad’ before?”

He could feel the flush colouring Thomas’s face.

“What about that for a solution? Get Francis to officially adopt you and then we both change our name to Crozier. Thomas Crozier. Edward Crozier,” he said, trying out the names. “It’s nice.”

“Shut up,” Thomas mumbled into his shoulder. “I hate you.”

Edward kissed the top of Thomas’s head. “You love me. That’s why you want to marry me.”

“Not until we sort this surname business out. ‘Tom Little’ sounds like a character from a nursery rhyme.”

“Tom Little-Jopson-“

“-sounds like a nickname for my penis.” Thomas settled back into the pillows.

With all seriousness, Edward said, “We wouldn’t want to mislead anyone with ‘Little Jopson’.”

“You flatter me.”

“It would have to be ‘Of Average Girth But Deliciously Long’ Jopson.”

Thomas burst out into laughter beside him.

Edward rolled onto his side and stroked the skin of Thomas’s exposed flank.

“Just ask Francis tomorrow if he’d like you to make any plans for him. He’s probably just forgotten.”

Thomas nodded. Edward could feel him relax under his hands, and he closed his eyes, eager to return to sleep.

“Darling,” Thomas said, voice low and suggestive, “since we’re both awake…”

He trailed off, and on seeing Edward’s eyes snap open with lustful interest, took Edward’s hand and guided it under the blankets where it found something of average girth but deliciously long.

* * *

“The Marines are on strike again,” was the first thing Dr. Goodsir said when Edward came into work the next morning.

“All of them? Or just Tozer’s shift?”

“Just Tozer.”

Edward rolled his eyes, not caring how juvenile it looked. He knew Silna wouldn’t think less of him.

“Of course it’s Tozer. It’s always Tozer.” Edward hung his jacket up in his locker. “What is it this time?”

Silna tapped a pattern with her pen against the patient chart she held in her hands. “He claims Tuunbaq is a safety hazard.”

Edward shook his head, nudging Silna out of the way so he could pour himself a cup of coffee. He had four minutes before his shift started and he was going to use those four minutes as wisely as possible.

“Rough night, Dr. Little?” she asked, watching with amusement as Edward drained his first cup of coffee like it was a shot of vodka. He grimaced. It must be George’s day shift rotation. Only Hodgson brewed coffee so strong it tasted like hot mud. He poured himself another cup anyways.

“No,” he said, smiling as he leaned against the counter and felt the bruises Thomas left on his hips ache. “Not at all. A very good night.”

“When are you going to ask that man to marry you?” the other Dr. Goodsir asked as he entered, holding the leash of his and Silna’s therapy dog. Tuunbaq sniffed at Edward’s loafers before bounding over to greet Silna with a big fluffy cuddle.

“Once I convince him that ‘Edward Jopson’ is a perfectly acceptable name, I suppose.”

Harry hummed. “We could all start calling you Doctor Jopson. You know, to practice?” And then, “the Marines are on strike again.”

The Marines were, in actuality, the security detail that was assigned to the A&E department of the Sir John Franklin Memorial Hospital. No one knew how the nickname started, but it quickly spread through the A&E department and now, if a patient asks where security is, it takes the staff a moment to realize they’re talking about the group of surly, unreliable men who were rarely working and were usually locked in their office in another attempt at a strike.

It was Edward’s personal belief that whoever provided them with stun guns should be immediately fired from their post and never be allowed to interact with humans again.

“Well, best get to it,” Harry said. “Call me if you need me.” He kissed his wife and let Tuunbaq lead him to the emergency psych ward.

* * *

Francis Crozier sat at his desk in his office tucked away in the corner of the HR department of the Sir John Franklin Memorial Hospital, cursing his luck. His Blackberry had vibrated, no doubt with a text from James, and had vibrated off his desk and straight into his wastepaper basket. He was too busy digging through cereal bar wrappers to hear Jopson enter. Up to his elbows in silver and green plastic, he raised his head and slammed the back of his skull on the desk.

“Bugger buggering bugger of a-“ he mumbled, shaking crumbs of granola off the sleeves of his blazer and facing his personal assistant with a red face and an aching head.

“Morning, sir!” Jopson said brightly.

Francis nodded. “Thomas.”

“Coffee?”

Francis nodded, not that it mattered. Jopson had already pushed a full mug of steaming black coffee into his hands.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Jopson hovered in front of Francis’s desk, bouncing from foot to foot. Francis said nothing. If he had a meeting today, the lad had better just come out and say it. Otherwise, he was spending the day sending emails, texting James, and watching boat repair videos on Youtube until something more important came up.

“Sir…” Jopson said hesitantly.

“Yes?” Crozier answered impatiently. His phone was vibrating from the trash can.

“Oh!” Jopson exclaimed, reaching under the desk and expertly plucking the black square out of the sea of past breakfast substitutes. He caught a glimpse of the screen and immediately flushed bright red. “It’s for you, sir.”

Francis grabbed the phone from his PA’s hand. “Of course it’s for me! It’s my phone!” Then _he _caught a glimpse of the message and also flushed bright red. James had apparently deemed it appropriate to send him nudes from his office. He’d have to send someone to impart some discipline over at the Director’s office because Le Vesconte was clearly not doing his job if the Director of the Board was wasting his working hours getting naked in his office. Hell, knowing Le Vesconte, he was probably the one who offered to take the picture.

Not that it was a bad picture.

In fact, it was completely the opposite.

“Do I have time for an extended lunch today, Thomas?”

Jopson nodded. He looked afraid.

“Sir, I was just wondering if you wanted me to make any calls for you. About next week. Your anniversary.”

Francis looked at the screen on his Blackberry again as it lit up. _I’ll see you for lunch later? I hope you’re hungry_ it read. He felt his mouth go dry.

“I’ve got it under control,” he said, more to his dick than to his assistant.

Jopson nodded and fled the room.

His Blackberry buzzed again. _If not, I’m sure we can think of some way to work up an appetite._

Francis glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock was a perfectly acceptable time for lunch to start, he reasoned, and was out the door before Jopson could fetch his coat.

_Friday_

Pastor John Irving was only in charge of the hospital chapel, but he was satisfied with his work. Each day, he was able to comfort the grieving, celebrate with the thankful, and offer juice boxes to children while he essentially ran a glorified babysitting club in the form of watercolour lessons. It was overall a pleasant job, though it did not mean that he liked all parts of it.

Pastor John hated the morgue.

It was dark, it was cold, and the tall, thin, sickly-looking man who worked as a mortician made him uncomfortable. He knew he shouldn’t judge other people based on their appearances, but sometimes he got the feeling that Mr. Gibson was one of the very corpses he cut open with his scalpel.

Still, John believed in offering people comfort, so he did not hesitate to accompany the grieving Miss Brooks into the special morgue elevator and hold the heavy wooden door open while she paused outside the door.

“Pastor, I don’t know if I can-“

She was cut off by a loud thump, followed by a low chuckle and a sharp gasp. Expecting the worst (The worst, in this case, being reanimated corpses. A blasphemy, yes, but Irving had a soft spot for zombie movies and sometimes wondered if God would send a plague of flesh-eating zombies to raze civilization to the ground. Old Testament God would, surely), Irving entered the chilly room and noticed with relief that the body of Miss Brooks’s grandmother was lying dormant on the table.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Mr. Gibson rose from behind the table. His nose was bleeding, which did not distract Irving from the fact that his trousers were down around his knees and his briefs did very little to hide his (rapidly deflating but still very present) boner.

Irving felt his jaw drop. He glanced from Mr. Gibson to the dead woman’s body and was about to say something when another man crawled out from under the table.

Irving felt oddly relieved. It was much better in the eyes of the Lord to be a consenting homosexual than to be a necrophiliac. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding while the other man stood up and gave him a shit-eating grin.

“Mr. Gibson,” Irving said, ignoring the little man. “Miss Brooks is here to say her goodbyes to her grandmother.”

Gibson looked mortified. “Um, yes. Mr. Hickey was just helping me… clean.”

Hickey pulled a plunger out of his janitor’s tool belt and waved it in front of Irving’s face.

“Just doing my job, Billy. I’ll see you later to finish caulking the hole.”

The spread of Gibson’s blush from his neck to the roots of his red hair made him look like a Twizzler.

As Hickey the Janitor made to leave, Miss Brooks blocked his exit.

“Really?” she said. “In front of my dead grandmother?”

* * *

Thomas was still stressed, so Edward hauled himself out of bed at the tender hour of ten o’clock on his day off just so he could make it to the donut shop across town and then drive all the way back to the other side of town where the HR office was before noon. A young man carrying a stack of folders held the elevator door open for him. Judging from the dark circles under his eyes, thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, and the giant coffee cup perched precariously atop of the paper stack, he was Crozier’s latest intern.

“Has he made you go undercover at Fitzjames’s office yet?” Edward asked. The intern shook his head.

They ascended to the seventh floor in silence. When the soft _ding _chimed, the doors opened and Edward immediately found himself being pushed backwards by a French Canadian-shaped projectile holding a wedding scrapbook.

“Sorry, _mon ami_,” the projectile said, brushing the droplets of spilled coffee off his tweed jacket.

“Dundy?”

“Ah, Edward! Nice to see you,” Dundy Le Vesconte said, dropping the French accent once he realized he was among friends. Or rather, friend, as the intern somehow snuck out amidst the chaos and was likely delivering Crozier a comforting latte after the forceful ejection of the Vice President of the Board.

“You as well. It’s been a long time,” Edward said. He decided not to ask and instead resigned himself to riding the elevator back down to the ground floor and making a second attempt at delivering the donuts to his boyfriend.

“Day off, Doctor Little? Or is it Jopson-Little by now? Or Little-Jopson? That sounds a bit like a nickname for-“

“It’s still Doctor Little.”

“Oho, I see how it is.” Le Vesconte gave him a pair of finger guns and whispered a soft _pew pew_ as he presumably fired invisible bullets at Edward.

Again, Edward decided not to ask.

“I’m in the process of courting myself,” Le Vesconte said, unprompted. “The fair lady herself, Jane Franklin.”

Edward made an uninterested sound and wondered why the elevator was moving so slowly.

“Yep, Dundy “Milf-Hunter” Le Vesconte, they call me.”

Edward decided not to mention the fact that Jane Franklin had no children save a stepdaughter from her marriage to the late Sir John.

The elevator finally reached the ground floor just as Le Vesconte slapped the cover of the wedding scrapbook with the flat of his hand. Panicking, Edward left the elevator and ran for the stairs.

Seven flights of stairs later, he collapsed in the chair across from Thomas’s desk.

“Donuts,” he panted, sliding the bag of pastries across the polished wood and placing a lukewarm hot chocolate on the coaster Thomas kept on his desk.

He would put up with an elevator full of Le Vescontes for the smile Thomas gave him when he opened the bag.

“You remembered!”

“It’s been seven years, Tom. I know what kind of donuts you like.”

Edward watched as Thomas ripped the honey cruller in half and dunked it in his hot chocolate.

“And yet, every donut from you is still a gift.”

Thomas took a bite of his soggy donut and hummed happily. With his free hand, he took the sugar donut out of the bag.

“Show me your hand,” he said, and Edward obliged. Thomas flipped it over, fingers caressing the back of Edward’s hand before he tried to slide the donut onto Edward’s ring finger, laughing.

“Oh Thomas, it’s beautiful,” Edward cooed quietly. Only Thomas was allowed to hear him coo. 

“Is that it, then?” Crozier shouted from his office. “Go tie the knot, I’ll be here when you get back.”

“No, Francis,” Thomas called back. “Just a donut this time.”

In his shame, Edward could have sworn he heard Crozier mumble something about _daft idiots putting off a wedding because they’re afraid of a legal document_.


	2. Jimador Fresca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James drags Francis to the Sir John Franklin Memorial Trust Fund’s Winter Carnivale™ and they have an ok time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that England doesn't get very much snow in the winter, let alone enough to have an enormous winter carnivale with an ice castle and a ski hill. Alas, I live in Northern-ish Canada where we have three ski hills within city limits and have a month-long ice festival every winter. So, where does this fic take place? Who knows.

_Saturday_

Saturdays were nice days for James Fitzjames. On this particular Saturday, he woke up with Francis blowing him under the duvet, which was very nice. Then, while he was in the shower, Francis made coffee and eggs on toast for the two of them, which was also very nice. Over breakfast, Francis gave him the sports section of the newspaper without starting their usual squabble over the paper. It was a nice morning. It was also very suspicious.

“Francis,” James said, drawing out the vowels as he did whenever he was about to accuse him of being up to something. “Fr_au_ncis,” he said again, just so Francis knew exactly what he was getting into, “what are you not telling me?”

Eyes narrowed, Francis countered with a low, “_Jeames,_” which he used when he was about to accuse James of accusing him of being up to no good.

“You don’t get to bail out of this one,” James said. “Not today.”

Francis fell forward onto the table, arms outstretched and reaching towards James. “Please don’t make me go,” he whined.

“You’re in upper management at the hospital named for Jane Franklin’s dead husband. You have to put in an appearance at her winter fundraiser.”

“Please,” Francis moaned, face smushed against the table, “don’t make me.” James watched in amusement as Francis’s arm migrated from the wooden tabletop to the waistband of James’s plaid pyjama pants.

“We’re going, Francis, no matter how many blowjobs you bribe me with.”

Francis groaned. James dropped the open newspaper over his head and went to find his winter coat.

* * *

The Sir John Franklin Memorial Trust Fund’s Winter Carnivale ™ event (the name was trademarked and thus had to be used in its entirety) was well underway when James and Francis arrived at noon. Francis had tried one last diversionary tactic which involved whipped cream and spreading himself out seductively on the Ergonomic Sex Chair™ Blanky had gifted them at their last anniversary party before the Monkey Incident kicked off. James claimed it was a futile attempt, but Francis did manage to make them two hours late and therefore miss the entirety of Jane Franklin’s speech.

It took Francis another twenty minutes to find a place to park his SUV where it wasn’t in danger of door dings from feckless children, and another twenty minutes to walk through the snow towards the site of the Sir John Franklin Memorial Trust Fund’s Winter Carnivale™.

“Right,” Francis said when they finally crested the hill and caught sight of the brightly coloured tents, bonfires, and massive snow fort that dominated the park. Once he saw the little wooden hut erected next to the ski hill, Francis grabbed James’s mitten-clad hand and pulled him towards it like an enthusiastic sled dog.

“Don’t think I don’t know your chilblains are acting up,” Francis grumbled as he sat James down in front of one of the bonfires. “I’ll be right back.”

He left James in front of the fire with an extra pair of mittens and his own scarf wrapped around James’s pink cheeks. As he walked towards the hot chocolate booth, a man in a red ski jacket with an air rifle strapped to his back approached him.

“’Scuse me, sir, but you look like an honest, hardworking man who desires to seize some means of production. Do you have time for a couple questions?”

Francis allowed the man a three-second ‘are you serious’ stare before pushing past and getting in line for hot chocolate.

Another man approached him. This one was smaller, with a lightly coloured goatee and longer hair pushed back by his cap.

“Just a few questions while you’re in line.”

“No,” Francis said.

“Very good, sir. First, do you see that animal over there?” He pointed to the front of the line, where a massive fluffy white dog sat docilely at the feet of a woman in a parka.

Francis grunted in response.

“Don’t you think that animal is a threat?” the man asked.

“It’s not threatening anyone.”

“Ah, but it certainly could.”

“But it’s not. It’s a good dog.”

“We’re far enough away that it might be a bear.”

Francis squinted. It was definitely a dog.

“It’s definitely a dog, Mr…”

Francis trailed off, remembering that he didn’t care.

“Mr. Hickey, sir. I have it on good authority that that dog terrorizes children in a hospital environment, sir. My good friend and I,” Mr. Hickey gestured to the man in the red jacket who appeared to be locked in a staring contest with the dog, “have started a petition to ban such animals from houses of healing.”

“You can’t have dogs in the hospital unless they’re registered aid dogs,” Francis said. He had just mediated a case on this nonsense. He had argued that even if the dog was dressed as a baby, it was still considered a dog. He never thought he’d have to write that into hospital policy.

The other man went silent as Francis came to the front of the line and paid for two hot chocolates with extra marshmallows. He quickly turned to survey his escape route. With both hands occupied carrying hot beverages, he wouldn’t be able to swat the little man away. When the enthusiastic volunteer serving hot chocolates handed him his and James’s drinks, Francis ducked into the crowd milling around near the wooden stand and tried to lose the petitioner in the throng of people that led to the bonfire. When he emerged, he found himself face to face with the giant fluffy dog that was definitely not a bear.

“Mr. Crozier!” Harry Goodsir was sitting next to James, who was deep in conversation with Silna. Francis sat and reached across Goodsir to hand James his hot chocolate. His gloves were off, warming by the fire, and Francis stopped to examine each of his fingers before relinquishing the hot chocolate. Goodsir looked nearly giddy watching the exchange.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” Francis asked.

“Please, call me Harry,” Goodsir said, before remembering to answer the question. “Ah, I just love watching people in love. The little acts of kindness, moments of casual intimacy between lovers… it reminds me that people are inherently good.”

Francis snorted. Goodsir was an odd egg, but he was a wonderful psychiatric doctor.

“And the Lady Goodsir,” he said, turning to Silna. “How have you been?”

“Please,” Silna said, “call me Doctor.”

“The Marines are on strike,” Goodsir said. “They’re concerned about Tuunbaq.”

James shook his head. “The hospital has benefitted greatly from having a therapy dog on site. Has there been an incident?”

“He growled at Tozer,” Silna said. Tuunbaq had returned to lay at her feet and started to roll around in the snow. “So I did a swab. He had blood on his boots.”

“You swabbed a security officer?” Goodsir said incredulously.

Silna shrugged. _I love you,_ Goodsir mouthed to her behind Francis’s back.

“I don’t like him,” she said.

Francis rubbed his temples, imagining the potential PR nightmare that he would have to deal with if anyone else found out about the doctors swabbing security officers. Then he thought about the PR nightmare if anyone found out why Tozer had blood on his work boots.

“Well, he _does_ work in the A&E,” James said. “I’m certain there were many chances for him to be exposed to blood.”

“Last week, a known drug-seeking patient was ejected from the hospital on grounds of aggressive behaviour. The next morning he was found beaten to death just off the edge of hospital property.”

James groaned. “Don’t tell me- kicked with steel-toed boots?”

Silna nodded. “Tuunbaq used to be a cadaver dog before he retired to a life of being a _very_ good boy.” She got down on her knees to scratch the giant dog’s belly with both hands. Tuunbaq’s tail wagged, repeatedly beating against Francis’s ankles. They would bruise in the morning.

Francis stood. “Too much work talk,” he said, reaching for James’s hand and pulling him up.

“Nice to see you both!” James shouted as Francis dragged him away.

* * *

Francis didn’t slow down until they reached the ice sculptures on the other side of the Sir John Franklin Memorial Trust Fund’s Winter Carnivale™.

“For one day, I just want to be two blokes on a date. No…”

“Vanities?” James suggested.

Francis nodded. He looked around, an old habit that never really changed with the times, and leaned in and kissed James softly on the lips.

A catcall erupted from between the ice figures.

“Who the fuck did that!?” Francis yelled, another habit that refused to die.

James nudged him and pointed in the direction of the carnival games, where a couple had just disentangled themselves in front of the Yeti Hunt game, a repurposed Duck Hunt shooting gallery from The Sir John Franklin Memorial Trust Fund’s Summer Carnivale™. 

“Isn’t that your assistant?” James asked. Francis blinked twice before he believed what he saw. Jopson was waving the pellet gun in the air, pirouetting dramatically while the booth attendant brought the giant stuffed polar bear down from its place as top prize. The figure next to him, bundled up in a navy blue peacoat and at least three scarves of varying colours that Francis recognized as Jopson’s various experiments in knitting, caught him by the shoulders and pulled him in for what was, judging by the cheers of the crowd, another passionate smooching session.

“Would you like that?” James asked quietly.

“What?” Francis answered. “For you to win me some daft toy to show that you love me?”

“To be more open about our… relationship.”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” Francis said. He realized he was starting to sound especially crusty. “Do you?”

James watched as Jopson presented Little with the polar bear plush and Little’s perpetual Resting Despair Face broke into a smile. James didn’t think he’d ever seen Little smile before.

“I think I would,” James said. He felt incredibly awkward in the face of Francis’s silence.

Tentatively, Francis reached out a hand. James shook it.

“No, you daft fool, hold it!”

Their fingers couldn’t intertwine in their woollen mittens, but they held fast as they continued on the path towards the snow fort.

* * *

**“**So, what does this entail?”

“Don’t freak out and let go of my hand when we see someone we know.”

“But they all know about us. They throw our anniversary parties, James.”

“Yes, and yet you still refuse to kiss me for longer than a second at our own anniversary parties.”

There was silence between them for a minute as Francis processed this. He hadn’t realized it.

“So, what you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is that you want to snog me in public?”

James stopped on the verge of a laugh. “Yes,” he admitted, and then, eyes glittering like the snowflakes that dusted his hair, took off at a run towards the inside of the fort.

Francis caught up with him with relative ease- he had been trapped in an elevator with Le Vesconte enough times that Francis took the stairs to his seventh floor office more often than not. James, out of breath, collapsed against Francis’s chest in the first icy room they came across and dragged him down onto the block of ice that served as a sofa.

“You’ve always had impressive stamina,” James said, cupping Francis’s cheek with a gloved hand.

“You’ve always given me incentive to keep it that way,” Francis replied. “You and Le Vesconte’s elevator rides.”

“Let’s not talk about Dundy and his talent for breaking elevators right now.”

Francis leaned in, fighting the discomfort inside his brain that was screaming at him to hide his feelings beneath a crusty yet lovable exterior. James’s cheeks were pink with exertion and the cold and were begging to be kissed, but Francis ignored them. He didn’t want James to think he was breaking his promise already. Instead, he let his lips slide against James’s mouth. He could see the puffs of warm air floating up from their mouths as the breath they shared met the subzero temperatures of the snow castle.

James sighed into his mouth. Francis pulled him closer, parting his lips when the hot slide of James’s tongue swept over his bottom lip. He licked chastely at James’s tongue as it invaded his mouth as his arms naturally settled around James’s hips. In response, James pulled his gloves off and threaded his fingers into Francis’s hair, warm underneath his toque.

It was his first instinct to pull away when he heard voices approaching, but James tightened his hold in Francis’s hair and rubbed their noses together.

“I don’t give a damn,” James quoted Francis from earlier. “Isn’t that what you said?” Francis answered by slamming their mouths back together, pulling James into his lap on the ice block. He was beginning to lose feeling in his buttcheeks, but the heat of James’s mouth was more than enough to keep him comfortable.

The voices grew louder.

“You know, it was always my Millennial Dream to have a house,” one of the voices said.

“A house like this?” the other voice answered.

“Just a house, John.”

“We already own a house.”

“Exactly. Marrying you made all my dreams come true,” the first voice said as its owner entered the room.

Harry Bridgens made a surprise _oh_ sound when he came across the two men making out on top of a giant ice cube. His husband, far more familiar with the bizarre practices of upper management in the hospital due to his position as James Fitzjames’s PA, tugged Harry back into the hallway.

“Never get involved with upper management,” he wisely told his partner.

Harry hummed in agreement. Intrusion already forgotten, he linked his arm with John’s and wondered what type of tea would go best with the new book he was planning on starting when they returned home together.

* * *

They were melting the ice block when Francis finally let discomfort prevail and pulled away from James.

“My ass is wet,” he said.

James looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“From the ice,” Francis explained. The expression on James’s face became one of horror as he realized that his trousers were soaked through as well.

“Time to go home?” James suggested, exhibiting impressive spinal contortions as he tried to look at the wet spot across his ass.

Francis shook his head. “Not until they dry. Don’t want to ruin the upholstery in the car.”

“Are you serious? You care more about your minivan than my perfectly shaped ass?”

Francis scowled. “It’s an SUV.”

“What if,” James lowered his voice and leaned in, “I removed my trousers once we get to the minivan and use the seat warmer to keep my incredibly exposed thighs warm while you drive us home.”

Francis didn’t bother correcting him again.

* * *

Of course, things are never simple. Francis parked down by the ski hill, and while he may not have gotten any door dings on the SUV, both his and James’s wet pants were chafing something fierce. They were waddling down the hill when an erumpent shout sounded from top of the chair lift.

“Ey, Fitzy!” Le Vesconte waved. He was dressed in an authentic 1850s Navy greatcoat and a pair of bright blue-green snow pants. Lady Jane was with him wearing a baby pink snow suit last worn in public in the 1980s. Its teal stripes matched Le Vesconte’s snow pants in an uncanny way.

James raised a hand just high enough that Dundy couldn’t accuse him of ignoring him. Francis elbowed him in the ribs.

“I’m not encouraging him, Francis,” James said, correctly predicting what Francis was about to say.

“His trousers make me uncomfortable,” Francis said with his usual tactlessness.

James could just hear snippets of their conversation drift down the hill as they continued walking.

“Ah, _bibitte,_ let me show you how we do it in Quebec.”

“I certainly hope you all don’t go around calling women _bitte_,” she said, having learned French in Marseille nearly forty years ago.

“Pardonez-moi, mon petit chou,” Le Vesconte answered, continuing in his fake French Canadian accent. “The language of my people is a difficult one to interpret.”

“You speak French like a child,” she said, skiing a literal circle around him before stopping in front of the ski tracks pressed into the fresh snow. Le Vesconte appeared to be using his skis as snowshoes as he tromped over to stand beside her.

“Je devrais vous donner une sucette,” she laughed, and Le Vesconte lost control of his skis, slid into a perfect split, and rolled down the hill directly into a pine tree while Jane keeled over laughing.

Maybe there was hope for the odd couple yet, James thought, and squeezed Francis’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my French (both Quebecois and Metropolitan) because I'm very bad and have probably butchered the grammar, but
> 
> In Quebecois, bibitte means 'little bug', whereas in Metropolitan French, bitte means... dick. Petit chou does literally translate to 'small cabbage' but is a pretty standard term of endearment. (Personally I prefer Spanish's "media naranja" which is 'half orange', as in, "you're the other half of my orange")
> 
> Fun slang works both ways, though, because when Jane says he speaks French like a child and therefore: "I should give you a lollipop", Le Vesconte hears "I should give you a blowjob (or a hickey, depending on the context)
> 
> I'll dedicate a $5 margarita to anyone who makes dumb French Le Vesconte memes after this.


	3. Coronita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Little gets called in to work at the worst time, Jopson has a revelation, and Francis cooks some eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you're the best fandom in the world.
> 
> Warning for some filthy Jopson/Little banging at the beginning of the chapter.

_Sunday_

Edward was having trouble thinking straight. He was having trouble thinking at all, actually. It was partially because he was nearly upside down, hanging off the edge of the bed and supporting most of his weight on his elbows. Most of the blame, however, went to Thomas, who was kneeling on the bed above him with a firm grip on Edward’s hips, pounding into him as Edward saw stars and moaned and writhed and used his remaining strength to cant his hips back into Thomas’s thrusts and rub his own hard prick against the sheets.

“God, you feel amazing,” Thomas whispered, before he thrust in deep and came.

And that’s when Edward’s phone rang.

He whined when Thomas pulled out, leaving him empty and unsatisfied and desperately wishing he could throw his phone out the window. Thomas grabbed it for him off the nightstand and answered it, passing it to him after a brief greeting to Peglar which allowed Edward to right himself and kneel uncomfortably on the bed.

“Edward Little. I understand. Yes. Oh. _Oh. _I’ll be right- _oh! _Right there,” he said, the last _oh_ sounding particularly suspicious, as this was when Thomas pushed him forward with a hand on his lower back and began to lick his own spend out of Edward’s hole.

“Fuck, Thomas,” he moaned. He hoped Harry hung up before he dropped the phone between the headboard and the mattress, or else he was going to get an earful.

Spurred on by the profanities Edward was spouting, Thomas dug his hands into the curve of Edward’s ass and pulled his cheeks apart, letting Thomas’s soft, wet tongue reach deeper as he licked around the rim, still stretched taut from the girth of Thomas’s cock. A finger followed the next stroke of his tongue, rubbing over the sensitive flesh and gathering the remains of the sticky fluid.

“Tom, what-“ he started to ask, but he was cut off by Thomas, who draped himself over Edward’s back and traced a sticky finger over his lips.

The utter depravity of it made Edward’s cock twitch.

“Dirty boy,” he whispered, and took Thomas’s finger into his mouth, lapping at the salty fluid with his tongue. Satisfied it was clean, Thomas slid back to kneel behind Edward and finish what he had started.

Three and a half minutes under Thomas’s hot mouth and probing fingers was all it took for Edward to come, untouched, all over the sheets. With the grip on his hips no longer keeping him upright, Edward’s knees gave out and he collapsed belly-first onto the soiled sheets.

He didn’t have to turn around to know how smug Thomas was looking right now. Sex with him had only gotten better over their years together, with Thomas just as insatiable and Edward just as desperate to submit to him as they were during their first time together. He smiled into the pillow he had face-planted on to. It smelled like home.

“I hate to disturb you in your post-coital bliss, love, but who was on the phone?”

Edward rolled over in horror. He had forgotten.

“I need to go,” he said, rolling off the bed in a practiced way. It was the best way to avoid post-sex-with-Thomas anal pain, he found. “Someone stabbed the pastor.”

* * *

Thomas, being both an excellent boyfriend and someone who was in constant contact with Harry Bridgens (née Peglar) through the illustrious exchange of memes on Twitter, discovered that Hodgson was working today. Using his excellent deduction skills that he had learned over the years (mostly from having to play the ‘Why is Francis Surly Today?’ game), Thomas figured the best thing he could do to take care of his beloved man was to bring him a bucket-sized Americano with whipped cream on top.

“The cream melts after the first couple sips but then you get cream _and_ sweetener in your drink,” Edward tried to explain to him once. Thomas didn’t get it, but he _did _know how to make a wonderful hazelnut whipped cream, so he filled a Tupperware with it and drove to the hospital to surprise Edward at work. He’d plop some on top of the coffee once he got to the hospital. It wouldn’t do to deprive his future husband of the three sips of whipped cream he cherished so much.

It was aggravating sometimes, to not be able to call Edward his fiancé. It was an insecurity that had stayed with him for the entire seven years of their relationship. He knew Edward’s parents didn’t like him- his accent was wrong, he was raised by a single mom, he was altogether too _common_\- but it still hurt that they placed so much value in their name.

Ed was the third generation of Dr. Edward Littles in his family. On the day he was accepted into med school, Thomas took him out for their first fancy date (by fancy he meant a restaurant with a chandelier and without unlimited breadsticks).

“I used to practice writing ‘Dr. Little’ in my notebooks like a smitten schoolgirl,” he told Thomas that evening. “I’ve wanted it for so long. It feels surreal that it’s finally happening.”

Thomas, himself smitten like a schoolgirl, asked if he would ever consider changing his name to Dr. Jopson.

In retrospect, the look of confusion on Ed’s face may have been purely because it was far too soon in their relationship to talk about marriage, but until now, standing in front of the security desk at the hospital, Thomas had always believed it was about continuing his family legacy.

Before he had time to delve deeper into this realization, he was stopped by the double doors to the A&E department that refused to open.

“Why isn’t my ID card working?” he asked the security officers on duty.

“A&E staff only, man.”

“Right,” Thomas said. “Can you let me in then?”

“Sorry mate. Can’t just be letting strangers in these days.”

“But,” Thomas could feel his eye begin to twitch, “you know me, Mr. Tozer. I’m here with Edward Little all the time.”

“There’s been an incident,” Tozer said dramatically.

“You mean you let someone in with a knife and they stabbed the pastor?”

Tozer ignored his sarcasm. “That’s what happens when they don’t give us proper benefits. Those guys you work for, they don’t care about the little people. Sometimes the working class has to take matters into their own hands and call a general strike.”

Thomas had no idea where Tozer heard the term ‘general strike’ before. Neither did Magnus, evidently.

“We wasn’t really on strike though, were we, Sol? We sorta just locked ourselves in the office and watched Seinfeld on the security monitors.”

Thankfully, the sound of Peglar shouting his name drowned out the snort of laughter that erupted from Thomas’s nose.

“Come on, Tom,” Peglar said, holding the Emergency door open. “I hope these muppets didn’t keep you out here too long.”

“Long enough,” Thomas said, checking his container of whipped cream to see if it had melted. It hadn’t, thank goodness.

Edward was in the staff lounge, lying face down on the threadbare couch that faced the door, asleep. His face was smushed against one of the throw pillows that Thomas and John Bridgens had made as a Christmas present for the department Christmas party two years ago. He was going to have the shape of a tassel imprinted across his stubbly cheek when he woke up.

Thomas crossed the room and put the coffee and cream down before kneeling next to the sofa and softly brushing Edward’s hair away from his face. He looked serious even when he slept, though Thomas knew the serious face he wore so often was just that- a face. Edward’s mind was rich and colourful, full of passions and ideas, and even though his wit didn’t come as quick as Thomas’s, he always knew the right thing to say to make Thomas feel cherished and loved.

Impossibly fond, Thomas pressed a kiss to Edward’s forehead.

“Is this a dream or is Dr. Goodsir trying another psychology experiment?” Edward mumbled, hand swatting outwards and connecting with Thomas’s shoulder.

“Just me, darling. I fought my way past the Marines to save you from Hodgson’s coffee.”

Edward finally opened his eyes and sat up, wincing. “Thomas Jopson,” he said, “you are a beautiful, brave man.”

“I survived a conversation with Tozer, so I’d have to agree.”

Edward shook his head. “Tozer’s going through a Marxist phase. He tried to convince me to join his strike when I went to yell at him earlier.”

“How is the pastor?” Thomas asked, dumping the entire contents of his Tupperware onto the top of Edward’s giant cup of coffee.

“Irving? He’ll be okay.”

“_Irving? John Irving?”_

Thomas stared in disbelief as Edward casually took a long sip of his coffee. He had whipped cream on his nose. It was the cutest thing Thomas had ever seen.

“Hold that thought,” he said, before leaning in and kissing the white fluff off Edward’s nose. He caught sight of Harry Goodsir through the window. He looked like he was swooning.

“Right,” Thomas said, “sorry. Your innocent charm made me forget my utter disbelief that you didn’t tell me _John Irving_ was the one who got stabbed.”

Edward hesitated to answer. “School friend?”

“He was the absolute legend who caused the reform of the entire school lunch program! He offered us all salvation from the greasy canned food and got his church to do the catering. Have you ever tried church grilled cheese sandwiches, Edward? _Heavenly._”

“Did they also serve wine and small flat bread bites?”

“No, you cheeky bastard, they did not,” Jopson said, before pausing. “Actually, the croutons in the salad _were _very flat.”

“Ah, I think I remember now. Was he the one at your reunion who said, and I quote, ‘the charcuterie board of Christ holds food for all’?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, smiling dreamily. “Absolute legend.”

Goodsir knocked before opening the door of the staff lounge. “Dr. Jopson?”

“Huh?” Thomas said at the same time Edward answered “Yes?”

“The paramedics just brought in another stabbing. We’ll need you in Resus Two in a minute.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Edward said, running his fingers through his hair.

“Did he just call you Doctor Jopson?”

Edward nodded sheepishly.

“But-“ Thomas reached a hand out to steady himself on the arm of the sofa. “But I thought-“

“I wanted to get used to it before I brought it up. Is that okay?”

Thomas looked at him like he had just grown an impressive set of muttonchops in the last thirty seconds- bewildered, but with a deep sense of awe.

“_Yes_! But what about your family? What about passing on the Doctor Little legacy?”

Edward shrugged. “You’re my family.”

Thomas let out a tiny, squeaky sound and embraced Edward, squeezing him against his chest. “Can we get married?”

Edward extracted himself from Thomas’s limbs and held him at arms’ length. He shook his head before walking over to the wall and opening his locker.

“We’re in the wrong place for your proposal, Tom,” he said, turning around with the small black ring box that he had kept hidden in his work locker for the past year. He dropped to a knee.

“I can’t believe it took so long to ask. Marry me?”

Thomas laughed, dropping to his knees and tackling Edward to the floor.

“I never imagined I’d agree to marry someone wearing bloody scrubs in the staff lounge of a hospital,” he laughed.

“Any regrets?” Edward whispered, the smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be right now,” Thomas said between kisses pressed all over Edward’s face. “Now, go save a life, Doctor Jopson.”

* * *

Francis was making his specialty- bacon wrapped eggs and toast- when he had the sudden realization that he had been with James for five years. The smile reached his lips before he could stop it. The years together had flown by in relative bliss. Sure, they bickered and made snarky comments at each other, but it was all done out of love, or so Francis hoped. He was, admittedly, slightly out of touch with other peoples’ emotions.

Like many iconic couples, they started out as enemies.

It was a rivalry that was truly meant to be: two men vying for the late Sir John’s position of hospital director, only to be both let down when the Board (they never met the Board. They remained, until Fitzjames took over, an elusive group of shadowy figures that made poor decisions behind closed boardroom doors. It’s likely that Henry Le Vesconte Senior was a member- Francis can’t imagine Dundy getting the job any way other than nepotism) split the position in half and gave Francis the title of Human Resources Manager.

He put up a fight, thinking about the story of the two women claiming motherhood of the baby, and how the solution was to cut the baby in half. The fake mother consented, while the real mother understandably freaked the fuck out and told the other woman to take the baby but for the love of God, don’t cut it in half! The metaphor was even better when Francis realized _he_ was in the position of the real mother and thus, the true hero of the story.

It was to no avail, because The Board disappeared and was replaced by what he called The Boy Band, led by Fitzjames. Their offices were in separate buildings- he didn’t have to deal directly with Fitzjames for months after Franklin’s death. He refused to work within sight of him while they worked as executives under Franklin, and Fitzjames had taken offense to that. Francis considered it perfectly reasonable. Fitzjames liked to talk to people (including him, when he was trying to work!), combed his hair in the staff bathroom and left little wavy brown hairs in the sink, and once brought salmon for lunch and heated it up in the staff microwave.

All these things convinced Francis that Fitzjames was either an alien or the Worst Person Ever, and either way, Francis was not keen on interacting with him.

It all changed at the staff Christmas party.

Edward Little had just resigned from his position as Francis’s PA to go to medical school and Francis had just hired Jopson the Intern full time to replace him, finding out just before the party (by accidentally walking in on them making out in the coat room) that they had just gotten together. Bridgens, Fitzjames’s part time PA, had just married a man twenty years his junior who was a nurse in the emergency ward that Francis’s oldest friend, Tom Blanky, presided over as a retired surgeon and A&E manager. Silna and Harry had also just gotten engaged, and atmosphere at the Christmas party was similar to one of those sickly Hallmark channel movies that Francis hated but still watched when there was nothing else on television.

Love was in the air, and Francis hated it.

He was two bottles of red wine deep when Fitzjames tumbled to the ground by the dessert bar. Unconcerned, Francis glanced over and blew a raspberry in his direction.

The next thing he can remember, he was sitting at a table in the back of the banquet hall sharing a bottle of Scotch with the man.

“And then it charged me. I turned and ran,” Fitzjames slurred, “but it caught me.”

“Of course it bloody caught you, it’s a bloody tiger,” Francis grumbled back.

Fitzjames took no notice. “And then- wait for this, Francis, you won’t believe it- it took its claws,” he made a claw with the hand not busy transporting the wine glass from the table to his mouth, “and it scratched me.”

Francis stared, dumbfounded. “What?” he said. “That’s it?”

“And that was how I was mauled by a tiger at the zoo when I was a child,” Fitzjames finished proudly.

“Where was your mother?” Francis asked. “Your father? My God, you really were raised by animals.”

To his complete and utter shock, Fitzjames began tearing up. “Francis,” he said. It sounded broken and hollow. “I’ve always envied you, Francis,” he said.

“Me?” Francis said. “Why would you envy someone like me?”

“Your men adore you for your leadership and direction, not for your… your hair or your charisma. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, Francis. I haven’t worked my way up to the top like you have.”

Francis considered asking who adored Fitzjames for his charisma and if they needed a psych evaluation, but decided against it.

“Do you know why I was promoted?”

Francis shook his head.

“I saved the mayor from a scandal. Back then, I worked in Health Records, filing paperwork for twelve hours at a time, and by pure chance, I shredded the wrong file, only to find out it was the mayor’s chart when the police came in looking for it to use against him in court. He had an opiate addiction, you see, and was abusing the system to get free drugs. I didn’t have to take the promotion, but I wanted it. I wanted it so bad.”

“That makes you an opportunist, James, not a morally corrupt man.”

“I don’t deserve to be here. Not like you do.”

“I would say,” Francis said, swallowing his pride, “that the things you have done to keep your position as Director of the Board indicate that you do belong here.”

“Do you think so?”

Francis paused. Did he think so?

“Yes,” he said finally. It felt nice, he thought, to take a break from hating Fitzjames.

* * *

The next day Jopson sent him a picture of two people kissing under a sprig of mistletoe. Through his hangover, Francis could discern only that much. It took another few hours to realize that he was wearing Fitzjames’s tie over his fleecy pajamas. In a panic, he rushed to his phone and opened the picture Jopson sent him. Horrified, he realized that it was definitely him, and the man he had swept into a passionate kiss was James Fitzjames.

He decided to sit and let that one marinate for a couple hours while he drank some rye to combat the Scotch-and-wine hangover. After brooding by the fire for two hours, he opened up his contact list and sent a message to Fitzjames.

_I had a good time last night._

was all it said, but Francis figured small steps worked best.

* * *

Since that night, they opened to each other slowly, first with words, and then with their bodies. He’d never found James to be particularly secretive since that night, so the fact that James was bothered by his lack of PDA came as a complete shock. He’d have to do something to make up for five entire years of shortened kisses and dropping James’s hand whenever they encountered one of their coworkers. In his musings, Francis’s hand slipped and he pressed the side of his hand against the hot burner. As he swore at the burner, the stove, his hand, and the eggs, an incredible idea came to mind and he ran to get his laptop. And so, with the bacon and eggs forgotten in the frying pan, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier began to plot.


	4. El Niño

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy the Intern goes balls to balls with Charlie the Other Intern, Mr and Mr Bridgens reminisce on their wedding, and John Hartnell has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @radiojamming who intimidated me via emojis to let Jartnell live and also I can't remember who suggested the pairing but I APPRECIATE YOU! (and will credit you but alas, I am forgetful)

_Monday_

Jopson sat Hartnell the Intern down in front of his desk and folded his hands in what he presumed was a professional manner.

“Tommy,” he said seriously, “we are two days out from the biggest date of our boss’s life and things are about to get very intense around here.”

Tommy Hartnell laughed for a solid ten seconds before realizing that Jopson was serious.

“What do you mean?”

“Francis and James- James Fitzjames, director of the board- have been dating for five years. It’s a big anniversary. I don’t think Francis realizes the importance of this milestone, or what James is expecting.”

Hartnell sat silently. He did _not _sign up for this.

“Now, it’s happened before, and after the fiasco that was last year with the monkey and the cocaine and the toy train… it’s almost guaranteed that Fitzjames is going to send someone over here to spy and figure out what Francis has planned.”

“There are only six people on our floor, Mr. Jopson. Won’t we recognize a spy? I mean, Mr. Le Vesconte was pretty obvious.”

“He wasn’t a spy, he just really loves weddings. He’s been trying to get Francis to propose to James for years because James promised to let him fire the wedding gun.”

“The… wedding gun, sir?”

Thomas grimaced.

“The wedding gun.”

* * *

And so Tommy Hartnell, intern, was put on spy duty. The first guest of the day was quite obviously not a spy; Ed Little was a regular around the office and he was, as always, bringing his sweetheart lunch. It was quite sweet, Tommy thought, and left them to their whispering and not-so-clandestine kissing over Jopson’s desk.

The next guest was a woman in her 60s dressed in a power suit.

“Hello, ma’am,” Hartnell said.

“Good morning. I’m here to see Francis.”

“May I get your name, ma’am?”

The woman looked sharply offended.

“Excuse me? Don’t you know who I am?”

“I do, ma’am, and you’re not getting in that office. I assure you Mr. Crozier has everything under control and there’s no need to creep around this office like a two-faced rat.”

“_Excuse me?” _the woman said again.

Hartnell sighed. It was time to call in the big guns to deal with the spy.

“Mr. Jopson!” he yelled. “I found the spy!”

Jopson stuck his head around the corner, chopsticks still held in his hand. His mouth dropped open.

“Lady Franklin, how nice of you to drop by,” he said in his most pleasant voice while Lady Jane looked slightly angry but mostly amused at the look of pain on Hartnell’s face. She inclined her head at Jopson and walked past Hartnell into Crozier’s office.

“Ah,” he said.

He hid around the corner, ashamed, while Mr. Jopson resumed smooching his partner over pho. That was how he almost missed Charlie Des Voeux.

Charlie was Tommy’s old schoolmate and his counterpart at the Other Head Office. He was Fitzjames’s intern, meaning he was mostly in charge of party planning and the snack supply rather than the filing and report writing and accounts organization that Tommy was forced to do by Crozier each day.

“I’m here to see Mr. Crozier,” Des Voeux said.

“You are not, Mr. Des Voeux,” Hartnell said.

“Oh?” Des Voeux said, unzipping his jacket. “And how does an East End boy like you expect to keep me out of his office?”

Hartnell sighed and closed his eyes. He was not getting paid enough for this.

It was an unpaid internship. He wasn’t getting paid at all.

“Meet me at The Discovery Service in twenty minutes. Bring your throwing gloves.”

Des Voeux smirked, and Hartnell felt his palms start to sweat. This was his moment. He had trained his entire life for this, in bowling alleys and arcades, behind the corner store on the East End where he grew up, in front of the high school on the West Side, battling it out balls to balls with Charlie … all his training came down to this final showdown.

* * *

The Discovery Service wasn’t a dive bar. It was worse.

Tommy’s shoes stuck to the untreated plywood as he threw his peacoat over his arm and ordered himself a beer. It was only eleven in the morning, but one did not walk into The Discovery Service and order orange juice. Mostly because on a good day, the orange juice tasted like water containing only the dehydrated ancestors of oranges (La Croix, Le Vesconte calls it), but also because no one could survive the flashing lights and liaisons dangereux going on in the bar without a little bit of liquid courage.

He met Des Voeux in the back. The other intern had a glass of dark red wine, no doubt originating from a nondescript white box in the back of the bar refrigerator.

“Ready, Hartnell?”

Tommy nodded and fished in his pocket for a one pound coin. He flicked it towards Des Voeux, who caught it and expertly pressed the coin into the glowing slot.

The skeeball machine lit up in neon colours, emitting a screeching 8-bit theme tune.

“West Side calls heads,” Des Voeux said, flipping a fifty pence coin. It came up tails.

“Losing already, Des Voeux,” Tommy said, reaching for one of the scuffed and battered balls. He rolled it straight up the centre, where it fell neatly into the highest circle and gave him 50 points. “Just like old times,” he taunted, tossing the next ball towards Des Voeux.

* * *

The ice in Edward’s lemonade was melted by the time Peglar finished taking pictures of his and Thomas’s ring-adorned hands (for Instagram, he insisted, and sent them all to Thomas along with three rows of eggplant emojis). It was warm enough sitting by the wood-fire stove in the Bridgens’ house that the chill from the big window facing the forest was welcome. Edward found himself sweating in the green jumper he was wearing. He wondered how John and Harry managed in their accidentally-on-purpose matching cable knit sweaters when they were sat much closer to the fire than he and Thomas.

“Congratulations again,” Bridgens said. “I don’t have much to offer you two by way of advice, but I’m certain Edward’s parents will come around. Harry’s did.” He smiled at Peglar who, despite seeing him every day for nearly ten years, still looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the room.

Henry Peglar had been at school with Edward- their relationship hovered in the comfortable area between acquaintance and friendship- not close, but with enough shared interests that they would find themselves running into each other at the university and end up going out for coffee to catch up. After a few months of the local café on campus, Harry started suggesting a new place attached to an independent bookshop, and it didn’t take Edward long to figure out that Harry was absolutely smitten with the bookshop owner.

“But he’s… old,” Edward said with all the wisdom of his twenty-two years.

“He’s so smart, Ed,” Peglar had said. “He knows so much and he helps me with my anatomy- not like that, Little- and sometimes when he smiles at me his eyes get all crinkly and he’s just so _beautiful_ that it hurts to look at him, you know?”

Edward did not know. He wouldn’t know until he finished his degree and got a position as Francis Crozier’s PA at the head office of the hospital, where one day he would turn around and the new intern with pale blue eyes and dark shiny hair would stick his hand out and introduce himself as Thomas Jopson.

Peglar wasn’t asking for advice though, and he continued to frequent the bookshop to study. He started staying longer and longer, homework forgotten in his backpack, just to talk to John about books, or anatomy, or pathophysiology, or to listen to him read in a soft voice that was nearly lost among the clamour of the café.

“John,” Harry said one evening, textbooks long abandoned in favour of listening to John read, “what would you do if I kissed you right now?”

John laughed softly and picked up the last pile of books waiting to be re-shelved.

“You can’t play these games with an old man like me, Henry,” John had said, but Harry had already stood up from his table and crossed the space between them until he was standing in front of him.

“I swear his eyes were glowing,” John recalled during his speech at their wedding, “like an animal in the night, waiting to pounce.” The wedding guests laughed while Harry pretended to hide his face in shame. “I’m not sure he realized how willing his prey was.”

“And then I kissed him,” Harry said to whoops of delight. A chorus of chiming rang out from the guest tables- the sound of silverware tapping the stems of wine glasses that demanded the newly married couple to kiss. It was barely a kiss, in the end. Neither John nor Harry could stop smiling long enough to press their lips together.

“Finish the story!” a drunken Francis Crozier shouted from the back table. He then “accidentally” knocked Fitzjames’s glass of red wine directly into the other man’s lap.

“And then,” John continued, “he kissed me, and I was so startled I dropped the books right onto our feet. I broke my foot and Harry lost a toenail, so he drove the both of us to the hospital. It was a long wait, and I had only brought a copy of the first book I could grab-“

“-which was a collection of Pablo Neruda poems-“

“Which may have been a subconscious choice, because I began to read Harry my favourites-“

“-all the love poems, of course-“

“-and he fell asleep on my shoulder, and I knew at that moment that I was hopeless to resist falling in love with the boy who studied for his nursing exams in my bookshop.” 

“You forgot the best part, John.”

“Did I?”

“It must have been one or two in the morning, and I remember asking you why Neruda’s eighteenth love poem was your favourite, and you said…” Harry gestured for John to finish the story.

“I said it makes me think of you.”

“Here I love you,” they said at the same time, and the tinkling sound of the glasses filled the room again, and Henry Bridgens kissed his husband properly.

* * *

One of the defining moments of John Hartnell’s life was the day he killed a priest.

Not directly, but apparently the sight of him made the old man drop dead from a heart attack. He wheeled himself over to the hallway and pushed the code blue button, but it was too late. The man was, after all, ninety years old.

“Do you have any idea why the priest died when he saw me?” he asked his younger brother over dinner on that evening, ten years ago.

Tom quickly stuffed his mouth full of butter chicken and mumbled something indecipherable through the mounds of rice.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full!” their mother shouted from the other room.

The brothers exchanged a look that said “this woman is powerful and knows too much”. Tom swallowed his butter chicken and they quietly rinsed off their dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, Tom pushing John’s wheelchair down the hastily constructed ramp and over to the swing set. Betsey and Charles never played on it, preferring computer games to the outdoors, but Tom and John grew up inventing games that centred around the swings. Some days they were jungle explorers, balancing on crocodiles as they hung onto the thick branch above their head. Some days they were pirates, simulating walking the plant by jumping off the swings when they reached dangerous heights. And some days they were Olympic athletes, inventing their own sport (creatively called ‘Swing-Jumping’) and measuring the distance they flew with coloured plastic toys and carefully recording the distance in a notebook with Mickey Mouse on the cover.

It was all over now. John’s doctors were optimistic that he’d be able to walk with crutches one day, but for now he was confined to a wheelchair, both ankles shattered and reconstructed in repeat surgeries after the accident.

Lending his older brother an arm, Tom helped John onto one of the blue swings, sitting himself on the other one. They didn’t play pirates or jungle explorers anymore, but they still sat on the swings, swaying gently, to talk about important things.

“Am I a bad brother, John?”

John looked up in shock. “No. Why would you ask that?”

“Because I wasn’t there.”

John smiled, punching his brother in the arm. “Of course you weren’t! What kind of self-respecting seventeen year old wants his little brother tagging along on a lad’s weekend for the rugby team?”

Tommy laughs. “You missed me, you big turd!”

“A little,” John admits, “but it was easier to try to flirt with the team captain without my little brother watching.”

“_Flirt?” _

John looked down at his thin ankles, still discoloured from the surgeries. His feet hung uselessly from them, tracing small circles in the grass under their feet.

“Yeah. Graham visited a lot when I was in the hospital. He dropped off my homework and on Fridays when there was no practice he’d stick around and teach me math.”

Tommy looked shocked. “A rugby player who’s good at math? Are you sure you didn’t break your brain too?”

“Ha, ha,” John said. “But really Tommy, what the hell happened to the priest?”

Tommy twisted around slowly on the swing before lifting his feet, letting it unwind and spinning him around.

“I let everyone believe you were dead because I was scared the nice pastor wouldn’t hang out with me anymore,” he said in one breath.

John was speechless.

“What?”

“I guess-“ Tommy gulped. “I guess I sort of really like the new pastor? The young one with the dark hair and the eyes and the-“ he gulped again, “-the _hands_, and…”

“You’re hot for a priest!”

“No! I mean, he’s still in seminary school, so…”

John interrupts. “What’s his name?”

“John Irving.”

“His name is John?”

“Yes? Why is that important?”

John snorts. “Tommy, can you imagine getting frisky with this guy and having to moan _your brother’s name_? Isn’t that weird?”

“Gross,” Tommy whispered under his breath. Louder, he said, “unlike you, a pervert and athlete, my mind doesn’t revolve around balls.”

“You’re just jealous because Graham Gore is a beautiful name.”

They were quiet for a moment, listening to Betsey scream as their mother tried to get their little sister into the bath.

“Does he like you?”

“I don’t know,” John answered, propping his sore ankles up on the seat of his wheelchair. They sat in comfortable silence until their mother called them inside.

…

It turned out that Graham _did _like John. Graham liked John _so much_ that he took him to prom, shocking everyone as the star player of the rugby team walked in pushing a wheelchair bedecked in corsages, from white roses to baby’s breath to purple carnations, making it look like John was simply sitting in a garden, waiting for afternoon tea. His crutches were on his lap in the hopes he’d feel up for dancing later.

If anyone thought it was a joke, they were quickly corrected when Graham bent down and kissed John’s cheek in front of the entire rugby team.

“Rock on, mate,” John ‘Jiggle’ Diggle said. “The wrestling team says gay rights.”

Mr. Heather, the gym teacher who coached the rugby team, saluted them as they danced by later that evening, improvising a slow dance that incorporated both crutches.

“I really like you, John,” Graham said over the intense slow-dance jam that was Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time.

“I really like you too,” John said. He felt uncharacteristically shy, and ducked his head against Graham’s shoulder.

“D’you want to go out again?”

John nodded, face still pressed against the other man’s neck.

A blunt, square object was pressed into John’s face, taking him by surprise. He stumbled backwards, tripping over Jiggle Diggle’s attempt at breakdancing and falling to the floor.

“Leave room for the Bible!” their Principal screeched, waving the Good Book like a maniac.

* * *

They used the money John won in the lawsuit against the principal to put a down payment on a little house with a red door and a ramp, close to the middle school Graham would eventually end up teaching at. It had a shed in the back, which they painstakingly converted into a studio for John’s woodworking venture, and in which he and Tom spent countless nights painting together while Graham tried his best to understand how perspective worked and usually ended up abandoning his project and cooking for the three of them.

Tommy was quite fond of his brother’s partner (they’d moved beyond ‘boyfriends’ at five years of living together). He felt no murderous intent whatsoever compared to the contempt in which he held Betsey’s no-good deadbeat boyfriends, but it may have been because John was his big brother and in need of less protection than their little sister. No matter the cause, it was accepted among the Hartnell family that Graham Gore was a Really Good Guy.

Understandably, it came as a surprise when Graham asked Tommy to borrow his hospital ID card because he and John were planning to commit a robbery.


	5. Tito’s Vodkarita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuunbaq is a good boy, Irving has a crisis, and Tozer gets what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, Chili's fans!

_Tuesday_

Tuunbaq was a good boy. He was soft, he was fluffy, and he made sad people smile. He never peed inside, or chewed shoes. He never bit the light-haired man who liked mushrooms and was always operating the dark water machine, even when he sometimes ate Tuunbaq’s treats when he forgot to bring a lunch. He was _such _a good boy that he was always checking on his Mama, especially when her and Papa disappeared under the sheets on the giant bed. He was always scared that she would disappear and never come out again, so he would leap on the bed and dig through the pillows and the sheets until he found his owners, smiling and laughing and giving him lots of ear scratchies.

Tuunbaq was also a good, hardworking, proletariat dog. He was a dog of the working class. A dog of the people. A dog of justice.

And this is why, when Mama was on nightshift, Tuunbaq would patrol the halls and look for Bad Folks. The worst of the Bad Folks was Tozer. Tuunbaq didn’t like Tozer, especially after he tased and beat up the scared man who wanted the little round white treats that made him happy. Tuunbaq could smell the blood on his boots when he came back in and growled and growled until Tozer’s big friend called Magnus shooed him away.

Tuunbaq wouldn’t be scared off tonight. He brought a big stick with him inside when Mama had to go to work to fix the sick people. It was hidden in his work cubicle beside his tennis ball and his favourite toy- a cloth effigy of the White Man who delivered the mail.

Tuunbaq’s ears perked up. He could hear a pair of steel-toed boots echoing on the linoleum. He sniffed the air. It smelled like a rodent. Tuunbaq trotted over to his corner and nudged White Man until he could grasp a plush arm in between his teeth. He slowed his gait when he turned the corner. He wanted to intimidate the rodent before he gave chase. The first animal he saw was Tozer, lounging in his chair with his boots propped up on the desk. He was asleep.

The next human he saw was the one he thought was a rodent. He had a similar smell, but this one was too big and too pink to be a rat. It was a shame. Tuunbaq hadn’t chased a rat in a long time. Still, this man smelled like one of the Bad Folk so Tuunbaq growled and made a show of shaking the White Man in his mouth until one of his googly eyes flew off, skidding to a halt in front of the Rat Man.

“You told me this _thing _wouldn’t be here, Mr. Tozer,” the Rat Man said.

Tozer jerked awake. “Up the workers,” he said automatically, reaching for his can of orange Fanta.

“Tozer, let me in.”

“Did you lose your access card, Mr. Hickey? Because if so I’ll have to file a report and request another one through the hospital bureaucracy.”

“Left it at home,” Hickey said. Tuunbaq noticed that he was not wearing his usual janitor outfit. Instead, he was dressed in all black with a knife very obviously strapped to his thigh in a sexy thigh holster. It was not sexy on Hickey. The only thing keeping him from looking like a charred string bean was the ever-present janitor’s tool belt strapped around his waist. The plunger slapped ominously against his left thigh.

Tozer, however, must have thought differently because he leaned over his desk and gave Hickey a long, awkward once-over before nodding and opening the doors to the A&E. Tuunbaq dropped the one-eyed mailman on the floor and took off after the Rat Man.

* * *

Four large bouquets of flowers sat on John Irving’s bedside table.

The first was delivered from Human Resources. The flowers were arranged by his old school friend, Tom Jopson, who always had simple yet elegant tastes. He ran a bit old fashioned, if his partner’s sideburns were any indicator of taste, but John wasn’t one to judge. He was a nice guy, and they were nice flowers.

The second was from the kind Inuit family he was hosting through his church. He was left a house by his late parents, but it was much too big and lonesome for one person. He had been hosting immigrant families for years, but the Atiqtalaak family- a grandmother, her daughter, her son-in-law, and three grandkids- filled his childhood home with the noise and joy and light he had never had as a child. It was the most wonderful of exchanges: he welcomed them into his home, they treated him as part of their family.

_We promise not to eat the fake fruit again even though it’s a dumb decoration_, the card read in the scrawling hand of Nulia, the youngest of the children.

The third had a card simply signed ‘Mary’. Irving wondered if it was sent to the right room, but then he read the card.

_Pastor John,_

_Sorry you got stabbed, but not as sorry as I am for seeing two dudes bang in front of my grandmother’s lifeless corpse. Wishing you a speedy recovery. I’m looking forward to visiting you in the chapel again. Xxx_

_Mary_

The last bouquet was also sent from Human Resources, but specifically from Tommy Hartnell. This one was accompanied by a real card. A portrait of a winter landscape covered the front, and the blank inside was filled with small, cramped writing.

_I’m sorry I can’t come visit yet, sir. I have an important task that I have to complete for the good of the hospital that I hope will make up for the time I spray painted mean things about Dr. Blanky on the wall when I was 15. As you know, I was very upset because my brother had just broken both of his ankles in a boating accident and I wanted to blame someone for not being able to fix him. That was how I got involved in the East End gang, which I have severed <strike>nearly</strike> all ties with. But you know all this. When I heard what happened I knew I had to write, even though it’s been years since I’ve seen you. I don’t think I properly thanked you for everything you did for me and my family. Especially me. I was so upset by John’s injury. I thought I was a failure as a brother, that I let him get hurt and that I deserved to die. That’s what I was thinking about, when you showed up in the chapel that day. We painted, but I don’t remember what I painted. You did a landscape. I remember, because I told you I thought it looked like heaven. And then you told me that’s where John was now, and I didn’t correct you when you assumed he died because I liked painting heaven with you. I filled my apartment with landscape paintings, actually. All of them look like what I imagine heaven to look like. _

And then, crossed out, _I wasn’t lying when I said that when I pictured heaven, you were there with me. I’m sorry about what I did._

John felt his insides twist as he read. He looked down to make sure his organs hadn’t decided to leap out of the knife wound in his stomach. Satisfied that the wound was still stitched and sealed, his hands returned to caress the card.

Tommy Hartnell tried to kiss him in the little painting studio off the side of the chapel that day. It was almost ten years ago now, back when he was still in seminary school and Tommy was still in high school. After Irving pushed him away, Tommy had tried to laugh it off, but he wasn’t able to cover up the hurt in his eyes. John thought that was it; Tommy wouldn’t come back. He did. He showed up next week at the same time, apologized briefly, and asked if they could still talk and paint and pray together. _Of course,_ Irving said, and they resumed their former activities, albeit with an awkwardness that wasn’t there before.

Then Tommy went to university and Irving took over the hospital chapel, and they only kept up on social media, wishing each other a happy birthday or a pleasant Christmas that would spark an ongoing conversation that would peter off over the weeks.

Irving wanted to blame the pain meds on the sudden feeling of bisexual panic rising in his mind. He wondered if Tommy still wanted to kiss him. He wondered if Miss Brooks also wanted to kiss him, or if she signed all her notes with ‘xxx’s. The more he thought about it, the more Irving realized he wanted to kiss both of them. Distraught by the reality brought on by bisexual polyamourous panic, Irving sat back in the pillows and let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

He woke up to a ferocious growl and a loud, high-pitched yelp, followed by heavy footsteps and a jingle that sounded like a dog collar. In the morphine-fog that clouded his mind, Irving was convinced that the Devil had watched the dirty fantasies involving him, Tommy Hartnell, and/or Mary Brooks playing in his mind and sent a hell hound to drag him down to eternal torment. He had to run away and go somewhere safe. Despite his spinning head, Irving swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his IV pole. He was going to go to the chapel. The Devil hated chapels.

Irving stumbled along the halls of the hospital. His limbs were so heavy it felt like each one was a man-made wooden sledge designed to haul a whaleboat overland. He was passing the emergency psych department when he stopped for a break. All this speedwalking was making his knife wound hurt. Hopefully the Devil was delayed in Georgia on his way up from Hell. Leaning against the wall, he nearly had his feet knocked out from under him when Tuunbaq trotted by happily, carrying a wooden stick the size of a small tree in his mouth. He stopped in front of the isolation cell, lifted himself up on two legs, and barred the door with the wooden stick. Through the window, Irving could see the janitor’s panicked face as he beat at the window with the handle of a knife. A very familiar knife, Irving thought.

He couldn’t remember the face of the man that stabbed him- he only knew that he was familiar. Dr. Goodsir called it ‘traumatic amnesia’, while the other Dr. Goodsir suggested he had concussed himself when he fell backwards in the chapel.

He remembered now, but he was too high on morphine to do anything but warn the giant dog, “The Devil is visiting from Georgia. Toodaloo!”

* * *

Mary Brooks was having a terrible day. She just watched her boyfriend hook up with his best friend right in front of her while she was trying to eat her salad, and they didn’t even invite her to join. Betrayed and hungry, she yelled into the bedroom that she was dumping him and drove to the hospital, hoping for some quiet time in the chapel to process all the strange events of the past few days. She was, therefore, dismayed to find another person tucked in on himself in one of the pews.

“Oh, hello,” the man said. He was tall and gangly with dark blond hair and sad eyes. “Bit late, no?”

“It’s been a rough week for me,” she said, sitting down next to the blond. It seemed rude not to. “You?”

“My friend got stabbed and I’m too scared to go visit him,” he admitted, unfolding his legs and stretching them out under the pew in front of them.

“Why are you scared?”

“I had a huge crush on him for years. I tried to kiss him right here, in the chapel, when I was fifteen. He pushed me away. At the time I thought it was because I had it all wrong, but now I’m thinking it was probably because I was just a kid.” He laughed sadly. “Now I find out that this happened to him, and all the feelings came rushing back, like no time has passed at all.”

“Everywhere I go, I keep interrupting gay sex,” Mary said. Her story didn’t sound nearly as dramatic and emotional as the other man’s.

“No danger here,” the man said. “I’m, uh, still…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Virginity is a social construct,” Mary said. “I’m Mary Brooks.”

She figured that talking about the places (or lack thereof) where the man’s penis has been warranted an introduction.

“Tommy Hartnell,” he said, shaking her hand.

“So, do you think you’re subconsciously comparing every man you date to your friend?” she asked, jumping in with both feet.

“Yes,” he admitted. He seemed to appreciate her bluntness.

“Right. Let’s go visit your friend,” she said. “The fate of your penis depends on it.”

Before they could stand up, John Irving stumbled through the double doors. He looked from Mary to Tommy in horror.

“The Devil is here and he tempts me!” he screeched, before falling to the floor.

* * *

Irving was very cozy when he woke up the next morning. Dr. MacDonald took him off the morphine after Peglar changed his wound dressings last night, so he was in a bit of pain, but he was sandwiched between Tommy Hartnell on his left and Mary Brooks on his right. He had no idea what had gone on while he slept, but they seemed just as cozy, clasped hands resting on the pillow over John’s head.

“Tommy? Miss Brooks? I don’t understand. I don’t deserve…,” he said, trying to express his feelings and failing spectacularly.

“You deserve love, John,” Tommy whispered. “if you want it.”

“I do,” John whispered back. “God knows how much I do.”

“Good,” Mary whispered. “Because Tommy is totally into you. I, personally, am just here for a good, solid cuddle because I just got out of a relationship and am, personally, devastated.” She did not sound devastated. “Also there’s a really hot cop out there and I’m totally going to shoot my shot.”

“John, I… it’s good to see you,” Hartnell said, becoming flustered by his place in Irving’s hospital bed.

“Will you stay? Please?” Irving asked. He did not reach out and touch, not yet. There would be time to explore his feelings later.

Hartnell nodded.

“Anyone want some salad?” Mary interrupted, crunching a piece of iceberg lettuce between her teeth. “I never got to finish it last night.”

Overwhelmed with bisexual polyamourous satisfaction, John relaxed into the hospital bed and plucked a tomato out of the salad bowl.

* * *

Tozer wondered if he was going to be in deep shit for letting the janitor into the department with a knife. Surgeons have scalpels, though, and Harry Goodsir’s sideburns could definitely be used offensively if the man wasn’t made of sunshine and lollipops. Even _he_ had a well-used taser gun. He filled out his reports, though, citing the dog as a hazard and a threat, even though the last time he tried to taze Tuunbaq, the dog had given him a very unimpressed look and simply shook the darts out of its dense fur.

Blanky, Crozier, and Fitzjames were all hauled out of their beds to witness the arrest of Hickey the Janitor. Officer Cracroft was talking with Crozier now, having locked Hickey in the back of her police car. Blanky was showing the evidence bag with the long, thin knife to Doctor MacDonald, the surgeon who repaired the pastor’s punctured diaphragm. Fitzjames was drinking coffee and looking elegantly disappointed as he leaned against the vending machine. He was wearing a pajama shirt under his jacket that clearly showed a fresh love bite on his collarbone. Tozer felt uncomfortable.

When the bourgeoisie class of the hospital re-entered the A&E department to speak with Irving, Tozer found himself confronted by a panicky Billy Gibson. He looked especially skeletal today. It was oddly sexy, Tozer found. He immediately blamed it on the idea that the working classes were the bones of society. It was definitely not a skeleton fetish.

“Should I quit? Should I talk to the cops? Should I admit that Hickey bribed me to stay quiet about stabbing the pastor?” he rambled, forehead pressed against the edge of Tozer’s desk.

Tozer didn’t know what to say. He was never good at comforting people. He patted Gibson’s head awkwardly, and pulled out his massive copy of E.P. Thompson’s _The Making of the English Working Class_. Reading his favourite parts of the 900 page book always made him feel better. Maybe it would work for a fellow proletarian.

“Uh, thanks,” Gibson said when Tozer handed it over.

“Take a load off, my guy. Take a seat in the office and help yourself to the brownies. Magnus can’t stop baking and you look like you could use some glucose.”

“Right. Okay.” Gibson stepped behind the desk and sat in the desk chair. With nothing else to do, he opened the book and began to read.

* * *

Sophia Cracroft’s night shift was a giant steaming pile of shit so far. She started her shift off with a domestic abuse call, then accompanied the coroner to a suspicious death where one of the paramedics hit on her in front of the grieving family, and now she has to go to the hospital. Every time she was sent to the hospital, she always ended up stuck there for the rest of the night.

When she arrived to the emergency psych ward, she thought she was hallucinating. A giant white dog was pacing in front of the isolation room, which was barricaded with a small tree. A man with a pointed goatee banged on the window of the room with the handle of a knife. Francis was sitting on the nurses’ desk and eating popcorn out of a disposable cardboard bedpan.

“Officer Cracroft,” he exclaimed, offering her some popcorn. At a loss of what else to do, she took a handful and gestured haplessly at the situation in front of her.

Thomas Blanky popped up from behind the desk and offered her a can of ginger ale. Again, she took it.

“So,” she said.

“Yes,” Crozier said.

“This is the idiot who stabbed the pastor,” Blanky said, as if that explained the situation.

“Okay,” was all she said, and she sipped her ginger ale slowly.

* * *

Backup arrived, but the dog wouldn’t budge until Dr. Silna Goodsir scratched his ears and demonstrated with his mailman chew toy that the Bad Man would be put in jail. Only then did Tuunbaq proudly retire to his dog bed in the corner and allow the cops to pull the tree away from the door. Sophia disarmed the man and bagged the knife, handing it over to Blanky, whom she trusted more with a knife than Francis.

“I’ll get you for this, Crozier!” he shouted.

“Who was that?” Francis asked once Hickey was gone.

“The janitor, apparently,” Silna said. “Tuunbaq said he was coming in to finish the job.”

“What job?”

“John Irving.”

“Christ,” Francis said, imagining the PR nightmare this was going to cause.

As he prepared a statement in his head, Irving was wheeled past on a stretcher, accompanied by Hartnell the Intern and a dark-complexioned woman carrying a salad bowl. This night was becoming stranger by the minute.

When Sophia went to interview the mortician, she found him partway through a massive book, nibbling on a brownie. He seemed relatively normal, and she was thankful.

“Mr. Gibson, I’m Officer Cracroft. I’m here to ask a few questions about Cornelius Hickey and his involvement in the stabbing of Pastor John Irving.”

Gibson immediately tore off a necklace with a gold ring strung on it.

“He bribed me! And I took it, because I was ashamed of being working class and wanted some extra money. I didn’t realize until now what a rich history we proletariat have and how I should be proud of my roots.”

Sophia took a deep breath.

“Did Mr. Hickey harbour ill feelings towards Mr. Irving?”

“He thought Irving was going to report him for having s- er, for being a homosexual.”

Sophia snorted, thinking about the blond kid who had squeezed himself in beside Irving in the hospital bed. Also, she always saw him at her Lutheran church where she and her partner, a nonbinary pastor, were married.

“He was wrong.”

“Oh,” Gibson said sadly. “I like Mr. Irving. He’s always been kind to me.”

“I’ve been assured that he’ll pull through. Now, tell me everything.”

* * *

After Gibson went down to the police station, Tozer was surprised with a visit from a bleary-eyed Edward Little.

“Did you let Hickey into the department with a knife _twice_?” he said.

“What, no hello? Have we really drifted so far apart, Ed?”

Edward rubbed his temples. “It was nine years ago, Sol.”

“I heard a rumour you’re wasting that monster cock of yours with your new boytoy.”

Edward flushed bright red. “Fiancé. And we’ve been together for seven years. It’s not new.”

Tozer grinned. “I know mate, I’m just messing with you. Still, if you ever want to negotiate a deal with your man and stick that glorious beast in me again-“

Edward cut him off. “I’ll let you know,” he grimaced. “But really, Solomon, did you let Hickey in with a knife?”

Tozer shrugged. “Solidarity among workers.”

“And,” Edward looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Morfin?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Morfin died just off hospital grounds last week. He was beaten to death. Autopsy matched a lot of the bruises to a pair of steel-toed boots.”

“We all wear protective footwear here,” Tozer said, raising an eyebrow. “As do the construction workers, paramedics, and police officers that pass through. It sounds to me like this is an attack on the blue-collar workers.”

“Do you know who killed him, Tozer?” Edward sighed.

“What’s in it for me if I tell you?”

Edward let out a sound akin to the dying breath of a squirrel. “What do you want?”

Tozer made a show of leaning over the edge of his desk and glancing lecherously at Edward’s crotch.

“I’m getting married, you pervert!”

Tozer threw his hands up in front of his face in defense. “I don’t believe in infidelity, man. With your fiancé’s consent, I humbly request dick pics.”

“Oh God,” Edward sighed.

One phone call to Jopson later, Edward emerged from the staff toilet, ashamed and uncomfortable that he had just had phone sex with Thomas in the staff toilet and outright horrified that he had filmed himself jerking off and sent it to Tozer. He would have to have a long chat with Tom when he got home- it was him, after all, who suggested they invite Tozer over for a threesome, or, as Thomas called it, “an Edward sandwich”. He would have to make Tom swear never to tell Tozer that idea was what pushed him over the edge.

“It was Pilkington!” he could hear Tozer yell from his desk. Edward slammed his forehead against the paper towel dispenser and vowed to never come in for an extra shift ever again.

* * *

“I tased him,” Tozer admitted when Officer Cracroft questioned him down at the police station. “But it was Pilkington who wouldn’t stop.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” she asked.

“Working class solidarity.”

“Uh huh. Well, we’re going to bring in Pilkington. Until then, you stay here.”

“And we’ll be back to discuss disciplinary measures concerning your job, Mr. Tozer,” Crozier said, who had for some reason been allowed to accompany Officer Cracroft into the interrogation room.

“Fucking bourgeoisie,” Tozer muttered, opening _Animal Farm _to where he had left off.


	6. Berry Blitzen 'Rita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis's plans come to fruition; Betsy Hartnell takes charge; John Irving commits a little sin, as a treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Thanks for your patience, everyone- the end of the semester combined with winter break activities made me wholly unproductive and a bit stressed, but everything is sorted and I am back on my bullshit! 
> 
> But now, I am pleased to present:
> 
> CHILI'S TIME

_Wednesday_

“Jopson!”

Thomas poked his head around the corner of Francis’s office door.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need your help.”

_Finally,_ Thomas thought. He had thought up so many great ideas for a last-minute romantic anniversary night.

Francis stood up from his desk and crossed behind Thomas, closing the door. A black garment bag hung on a hook on the back of the door. Francis picked up the suit bag and cradled it in his arms, tenderly.

“Could you iron this for me?”

Thomas took the suit bag with a great sense of relief. Francis _had_ organized something. Something that required a suit, no less. Thomas was cautiously optimistic.

“Of course, sir.”

Thomas took the bag back to his office. He had convinced Francis that keeping an ironing board and iron (_not _a steamer, he had insisted- Thomas loved the crisp seams you could only get from a solid pressing) in his office would be of great benefit to his career, and over the years Thomas lost count of how many times he had stripped the crumpled blazer from his boss’s shoulders and pressed out the wrinkles only minutes before an important meeting.

Letting the iron heat, Thomas unzipped the bag.

The first glimpse of red and bright blue drew the breath from his lungs.

He unzipped it further.

The obnoxious colours remained, revealing a blue and white tie-dye button up patterned with terrible red and orange hibiscus flowers and shockingly vivid green palm fronds. Thomas had never seen such a horrid article of clothing before in his life. It was worse than the time he brought Edward lunch after his neurology final and found him wearing Spongebob scrub pants and Thomas’s vintage Roxy Music t-shirt. At least _he_ had the excuse of being in his final year of med school.

It had to be a mistake. Thomas removed the shirt from its hanger with two fingers, afraid to get too close. He didn’t bother to knock on Francis’s open door.

“Is this a mistake?”

Francis looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

“No?”

Francis did not look the least bit ashamed.

“But… it’s…” Thomas couldn’t find the words to describe the monstrosity dangling off his index finger.

Francis stood up and walked around his desk slowly. Each step sounded like a gunshot. Francis grabbed Thomas by the shoulders and squeezed. He was wearing the Dad Smile.

“Thomas, I need you to iron my best Hawaiian shirt. I’m taking Fitzjames to Chili’s tonight.” 

* * *

Betsy showed up unannounced at her eldest brother’s door right as Graham arrived home from work.

“Hey, Betsy,” he called, lifting a hand. The sixteen-year-old wore a huge army-issued backpack over her black turtleneck. “Lots of homework?”

“Please, peasant,” she said. “I heard you and my brother are planning some B&E and need an expert.”

Graham looked at her, bewildered. “Isn’t that a sex thing?”

“Gross,” Betsy said, picking the lock on the front door before Graham could get his keys out. “Now let’s go. I’m going to teach you two losers how to break into the hospital.”

* * *

“Why are we doing this again, hon?” Graham asked. John was sitting in his recliner chair with his newly-broken leg propped up in front of him. He was on an enormous dose of painkillers. Graham suspected the only reason he wasn’t unconscious was the tolerance John had built up over the course of slowly breaking every bone in his body multiple times.

“B’cause, my handsome cutlet of a man,” John slurred, “the janitor told me they have tissue samples stored in the- in the..,” He reached out into the air and plucked an invisible piece of pie from the space in front of him, bringing it to his mouth like it contained his lost vocabulary.

“Basement?” Betsy offered.

“Yes!” John exclaimed, falling sideways out of his chair, directly onto Hauttube, the neighbourhood stray that got into their house one night and never left. Betsy had lovingly named it after taking a German class. Neither Graham nor John knew what Hauttube meant, but Graham suspected it meant something terrible. When it came to Betsy, most things she said were terrible.

The cat screeched, remaining teeth bared, and scampered away to hide in the Catterdome, stepping on John’s casted leg in its attempt to hide from Betsy’s outstretched hand. 

“Ouch,” John said, trying to right himself but forgetting that his leg was broken. Graham rushed to his rescue, scooping up six feet and six inches of lanky Hartnell and depositing him back in his chair. He reached between the arms of the chair and the cushion and extracted both sides of a seatbelt, clicking them together.

Safely belted into place, Graham perched on the arm of the chair and pressed a kiss to the cute little mole next to John’s eye.

“Mom told me about the weird janitor you were talking about, but she said you were just, and I quoth, ‘high as balls’.”

“I doubt Sarah said that,” Graham said. He had learned from experience to call Betsy on her bullshit fast.

“I was paraphrasing.”

John had wrapped his arms around Graham’s waist and was resting his head in his lap. His voice was muffled against Graham’s thigh when he retold the story of the weird hospital janitor.

“He asked if I was the same John Hartnell that broke his back four years ago and I said ‘yeah, that’s me!’ and then he said that they stole tissue samples from me and they’re keeping them in the lab and they’re gonna use them to abuse my civil liberties as a citizen.”

“You’re like, an enemy of the state,” Betsy whispered in awe.

Graham didn’t say anything. He still felt fully responsible for John’s dislocated vertebra. Their joint decision to appear on _Sex Sent Me to the A&E _didn’t help. The segment was legendary among the staff who worked at the same school as Graham. He heard a rumour they showed it in orientation training.

An ordinary man wouldn’t have broken his back from a night of enthusiastic sex, but John Hartnell was no ordinary man. He was the deadly combination of fragile-boned and accident-prone, and though Graham wouldn’t have him any other way, it was very difficult to explain what happened to his mother-in-law when John was in surgery.

“Don’t worry, my fluffy beige sweetheart,” John said. “Aside from the hospitalization it was very good sex.”

Betsy rolled her eyes. “That’s enough, thot. Let’s get down to business.”

John nodded and promptly fell asleep, but Graham listened carefully. John was serious about stealing his tissue samples back, and he was serious about supporting John; figuratively and literally: he’d need to give John a piggyback because, as Betsy said, crutches aren’t hardcore.

* * *

James Fitzjames was good at making the best of bad situations. It was how he had gotten his promotion, how he had seduced Francis, and it was why Jacko the Monkey was now a piece of elegant taxidermy after their last anniversary party had gone hideously awry.

So yes, he was good at making the best out of bad situations, but here, sitting in the passenger seat of Francis’s minivan in a three piece suit, James found himself at his wits’ end.

“Where are we going?” he asked. He kept his eyes straight ahead on the road, staunchly ignoring Francis’s horrid (yet crisply ironed) Hawaiian shirt.

“Chili’s,” Francis answered gruffly. They stopped at a red light. Francis reached into the seat behind him and pulled out a bouquet of red roses. “Here,” he said, shoving them into James’s lap.

“Happy anniversary to you too, Francis.” James said dryly.

* * *

James was wildly overdressed. Francis looked like he was about to purchase a $13 bottle of Corona at Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville (specifically; the one in Jamaica with the waterslide); while James looked like the best man at a wedding (a real wedding, not one where Dundy would be permitted to fire off the wedding gun).

And yet, Francis insisted on sitting on the same side of the table, side by side, a vomit-coloured explosion of tropical flowers next to a thousand-dollar suit. He slid a heavy arm around James’s waist and squeezed.

“I love you,” he said. He was wearing a soppy smile.

James frowned in confusion. Francis never pulled this couple-y nonsense in public, especially not in Chili’s. Chili’s was a haven for heterosexuals who had a propensity for staring, judging, and loudly comparing the offensiveness of their Hawaiian shirts; an activity which, despite having the worst Hawaiian shirts of all, Francis despised.

“Look at you two,” their waiter cooed on approach. “Is the wedding soon?”

“Not if he keeps taking me to Chili’s for our anniversary dinners,” James said. The waiter laughed as if he had told a funny joke.

James was deadly serious. His irritation simmered under a composed exterior as Francis ordered two Berry Blitzen ‘Ritas, offering James a sweet smile and pulling his menu towards him.

“Queso, for an appetizer?”

“Francis,” James sighed.

“Shrimp?”

“Francis!”

Francis looked up from his menu. “Is everything okay, James?”

“Okay? Francis, you took me to _Chili’s _for our fifth anniversary! Of course I’m not okay!”

James slapped his hands down on the plastic menu and pushed it towards the centre of the table.

“We go to Chili’s all the time! I don’t even need a bloody menu- I have the whole bloody thing memorized! And I am, quite frankly, _sick _of five dollar margaritas! I am sick of queso! I am sick of taco salads and quesadillas and ribs and ranchero and tomatillo and even- dare I say it- of salsa verde! What do I have to do for a bit of romance? A candlelit dinner for two? Tickets to the opera? A bloody home-cooked dinner, a bottle of bloody wine, and a wild night of passionate lovemaking? Is our relationship worth nothing more than a cheap tropical drink to you, Francis? Am _I?_”

He breathed heavily, his outburst taking more out of him than he had thought.

Francis’s face had fallen further and further into despair with every word. He was silently shredding the paper napkin into his lap, staring as each piece fluttered down like a snowflake.

“No, James.” Francis wrapped the remains of the napkin around his thumb. “I think the world of you. You know I do.”

“Then show me! Show the world how much you care!”

Francis’s eyes widened and he ripped the napkin in half. “I‘m _trying._”

Though he was distinctly aware that they were arguing in Chili’s, surrounded on three sides by families with small children, James couldn’t bring himself to lower his voice.

“How? How is this anything different from what we’ve been doing once a month for the past five years?”

Francis closed his eyes, mouth moving as if in silent prayer.

Then he surged forwards and kissed James full on the mouth with all of Chili’s to witness.

It lasted a long moment. James was stunned, but not unappreciative of the rasp of stubble against his cheek or the soft press of lips against his.

A burst of applause led by their waiter distracted Francis enough for James to push him away. A pair of children mistakenly began singing “Happy Birthday” and throwing nacho chips in the air as makeshift confetti. Under the cover of corn chip carnage, James allowed himself to be pulled in until he had his forehead pressed against Francis’s.

“Why did you just kiss me at Chili’s?” he asked. “You never kiss me at Chili’s.”

Francis’s mouth turned to a petulant pout. “It was the most public place I could think of.”

James froze. He _had_ asked Francis to be more generous with the public affection. It would explain why Francis had insisted he carry the bouquet of roses into Chili’s with him and why he sat next to him in the booth rather than his usual spot across from him.

It was then that it finally hit him. Francis was _trying. _Francis was pushing himself outside his comfort zone for this. For _him._ James tried to shake his head, but he just ended up rubbing his forehead against Francis’s.

“You bastard. Trust you to turn a grand gesture into an excuse for queso.”

“I thought you liked queso.”

“…I _do._”

“You’re not sick of it?”

James sighed. “No,” he said, let Francis kiss him again.

* * *

Reconciliation made dinner a much more pleasant affair than James was expecting but it didn’t resolve the pressing issue: Francis’s shirt.

Love him as he did, James could not allow such a travesty of fashion back into their closet. Between him and Jopson, Francis’s tacky shirts had been slowly disappearing and finding themselves hurled into garbage fires, tied to bricks and thrown in the river, or, most often, buried in Charles Des Voeux’s garden. The monstrosity Francis was wearing had escaped destruction so far, but that didn’t mean James was going to be merciful.

No, James was going to get rid of it _and _have a passionate night of wild anniversary sex with his man.

He pounced as soon as they made it through the door, pushing Francis against the closed door and sliding a leg in between his thighs.

“Take off your coat, Francis,” he purred. “Then take _me _to bed.”

Francis smiled. “So romance at Chili’s _did _work?”

James could think of a hundred things to say to that, but the little gap between Francis’s teeth was too tempting not to lick. He kissed him again, letting his tongue play over Francis’s front teeth and they began to stumble backwards into the kitchen. James felt his arse hit the countertop.

“Please,” James said, tugging Francis closer by the collar of his shirt until he was standing between James’s thighs. “I’ve been wanting to rip this off you all night.”

James made true to his word, sliding his fingers between the buttons and tearing the shirt open. Plastic buttons scattered across the kitchen tile. James grinned, satisfied with his work. Francis, quietly mourning the loss of his favourite Hawaiian shirt, pushed himself closer to kiss the self-satisfied smirk off James’s face. Any sore feelings about his shirt were quickly forgotten once James wrapped his long legs around Francis’s waist and pushed the torn shirt off Francis’s shoulders, kissing and biting at the exposed freckled skin. Still holding the shirt, James reclaimed Francis’s lips in a searing kiss, teeth and tongues colliding as their lips worked against each others’. James opened his eyes just long enough to ball up the shirt and make a well-aimed throw at the garborator. As James threw his head back in fake ecstasy (that quickly turned to real ecstasy when Francis got his shirt unbuttoned and bit down on a sensitive nipple), he reached backwards and flipped the switch that turned on the garbage disposal in the sink. A thick gurgling came from the drain, followed by mechanical whirring and a sound similar to a constipated robot screaming into a tube of Go-Gurt.

“My shirt!” Francis hopelessly reached towards the groaning sink where pieces of polyester were being tossed haphazardly into the air like their kitchen was the new Copacabana.

James tightened his legs around Francis’s waist, pulling him in to stand closer to James’s groin. He reached out and placed a palm on each cheek, turning Francis’s head towards him.

“Is that really what you’re concerned about right now?” he asked, rolling his hips up and grinding the bulge in his suit trousers against the bare skin of Francis’s belly.

“_Fuck it,_” Francis growled, sliding his palms under the curve of James’s arse and lifting him up with hidden strength before stumbling towards their bedroom.

* * *

Betsy invited herself along.

“In between making kids cry, I spend most of my time stealing from work,” she said, pushing back her hair to flash a rhinestone earring shaped like a spider. “I’m a professional.”

“She works at Claire’s,” John reminded Graham, muttering it into his ear as he wrapped his un-broken limbs tighter around Graham’s sturdy frame. His heavy plaster cast stuck out at an odd angle.

“Faster, boys!” Betsy commanded. “Now, assume position one: Blending In.”

Graham gently lowered John into a wheelchair and pushed him into the main building of the hospital. An exhausted looking doctor walked out from the door marked ‘laboratory’. He nodded at the group, scratched his charmingly retro sideburns, and stumbled over his own feet as he passed through the automatic doors to the A&E.

“Nice job, men. He didn’t notice a thing.”

“I don’t think he’d notice if we set his hair on fire, Betsy.”

Betsy ignored John’s remark. She pulled a large set of hospital blueprints out of her pack and directed them towards a set of double doors.

“No one’ll be in here at this hour,” she said. “We can assume our disguises.”

Graham blinked a number of times and looked from Betsy to John. Neither of them seemed to think that donning disguises in a hospital chapel to steal research samples was an odd occurrence. He shrugged and shouldered open the door.

Two figures sitting in the back pew sprang apart, shielding their eyes from the flood of fluorescent light from the open door.

“Sorry,” Graham said, making to back out of the chapel and leave the lovers to their own spicy business.

“_Toadstool?_” John said, pointing accusingly at one of the figures sitting in the pew.

“_Jenga Jenga the Jungle Man_?” the man said back.

“No way!” Betsy said. “I thought Mom said you were staying with a friend tonight?”

“Uh,” Tom Hartnell said, before gesturing to the man he had obviously been making out with before they walked in, “this is John. John Irving.”

Irving raised a hand. He was wearing a hospital gown and holding his stomach. “How d’you do?” he said before immediately grimacing and shrinking back into the pew.

“This is my brother, who shall not be named, his partner Graham, and our sister Betsy.” Tom explained.

Betsy looked up from where she had dumped the contents of her bag and raised her chin at Irving.

“Sup,” she said.

Irving wiggled his fingers in response.

“Sorry-not-sorry to interrupt, but we need to put on our disguises before we pull off the biggest heist of the century.”

Irving’s eyes widened and he looked at Tom. Tom shrugged.

“Welcome to the family.”

* * *

Graham was dressed in a long black robe with a big black hood. He pushed John’s wheelchair slowly in his black clogs. They were rubbing and giving him blisters, but Betsy insisted they completed the look. The hood fell over his eyes, so he was forced to look down at the top of John’s head while he navigated the hallways of the research labs.John was dressed as an old man, with a grey wig and a massive Santa beard. His face was powdered with white, hiding “any identifying features.”. Betsy ordered him to pretend to be a mummy if they ran into anyone. Graham was thankful that they seemed to be the only ones in the basement after hours.

Betsy was leading the way, wearing scrubs.

“I think this is it,” she said, swiping Tom’s access card and leading them into a dark room filled with shelves and racks of mannequins.

“I’ll find the tissue samples. You knuckleheads wait here.”

John didn’t object. He scratched at his fake beard and kicked a mannequin in its Barbie-doll crotch.

“Nice one,” Graham said. He wandered over to the shelves of boxes and began opening them at random. They contained multitudes of boring things: papers, empty bottles, test tubes, but then Graham reached to the back of the shelf, fingers closing around the lip of a box that he pulled forward and opened.

“John,” Graham said, peering closer into the box. “Look at this. He… he looks like you.”

John tried to stand up, remembered he had a broken leg, and then wheeled himself over to where Graham was standing. Graham lowered the box, showing his partner what was inside.

“_Oh,_” John said. “He… he has your jaw.”

The two men gazed adoringly at each other, and then back to the contents of the box.

“Our son,” John said in wonder.

“Our son.”

Graham reached in and pulled out a poseable plastic skeleton. He cradled the bony figure in his arms like a baby.

“Matthew,” John christened him. “Matthew Gore-Hartnell.”

“He’s beautiful,” Graham sighed, transferring the skeleton to John while carefully supporting the head.

“What the fuck?” Betsy asked. She tossed a cold biohazard bag at John. It was labelled with his name. “Your son needs a middle name.”

John was too busy examining the contents of the bag to object to Betsy naming herself Godmother and gifting Matthew with the second name ‘Throckmorton’.

As Graham nodded his approval, John gasped.

“These are _my pubes!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Across all universes, the only constant is that John Hartnell gets his pubic hair stolen by scientists. 
> 
> An eternal shoutout to the discord crew that brought Matthew Throckmorton Gore-Hartnell to life (or as close to life as a tiny plastic poseable skeleton can get)


	7. Tropical Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jopson panics, Irving panics, Manson panics, and Francis is still a devoted Blackberry user.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I wish Chili's delivered to my area

“How many times was that, then?”

“Five?”

“You think we can do better than that tomorrow?”

“Without carb-loading at Chili’s first?” James raised a sweaty, dishevelled eyebrow. He hadn’t moved since he collapsed face-first into the mound of throw pillows on their bed ten minutes ago.

“Ah, a fine point.” Francis admitted.

“Order in?”

“Order in. I’m closing the office for a week.”

“A _week?”_

Francis nodded down at James’s prone body and quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re clearly fit to go back to work tomorrow.”

“I thought we were spending tomorrow in bed?”

Francis’s eyebrow lifted itself to astronomical heights. James wiggled under the scrutiny. It was definitely not because Francis’s eyebrow was dead sexy. (It was.)

“A week sounds fine,” he said. If he hadn’t just come five times, he was sure he’d be getting aroused again from the mere idea of spending five days naked and in bed with Francis. But he had, so instead he remained as flaccid as a year-old balloon and instead enjoyed the warm, sated comfort that spread through his chest.

“Good. I’ll Blackberry Message Jopson.”

“Can’t you just say _text_ like a normal person? No one needs to be reminded you’re the only person on earth who still uses a Blackberry.”

“It has a keyboard, James.”

“I can’t believe you. Can you order Chili’s on your archaic device?”

Francis grimaced. “You know I can’t.”

James rolled his eyes but reached for his phone, currently playing _Sex Playlist 6 _and opening his delivery app.

“Queso?”

“Queso.”

* * *

The office was closed for an extended bank holiday weekend. Thomas could only hope that it was because Francis and James were both too exhausted from a full twelve hours of headboard-rattling, earthquake-causing, passionately athletic sex and not because James had suffered a premature heart attack upon learning that Francis was taking him to Chili’s for their five year anniversary while wearing a Hawaiian shirt.

He could feel his heart begin to beat erratically: he was going into panic mode. In a daze, head clouded by thoughts of James grasping at his chest and collapsing outside a Chili’s, Thomas headed for the bedroom where he kept his panic checklist.

_Step One_, it read, followed by a phone number. _Veggie deluxe_.

Step Two was a list of film names.

_Muppets Most Wanted._

_Muppet Treasure Island._

_Muppets in Space._

_Muppet Wizard of Oz._

_The Muppets._

_Muppets Take Manhattan._

_The Great Muppet Caper._

_The Muppet Movie._

_A Muppet Christmas Carol._

Overwhelmed by the first two steps, Tom sat on the sofa and called the number on his panic checklist.

“Diggle’s Pizza.”

“Hello,” he said politely. “May I have a medium veggie deluxe pizza for delivery, please.”

“Sure thing, son,” Diggle said. “I’ll have it over before Sam Eagle and Ty Burrell interrogate the Muppets.”

“Thanks, Mr. Diggle.”

Thomas placed the list on the coffee table and settled in for the night.

When Edward came home at six in the morning, he found his fiancé’s bloodshot eyes glued to the television where Kermit the Frog sang about rainbows.

“Oh God,” he said, breaking Thomas’s concentration. “How many have you watched?”

“Six,” Thomas mumbled. There was an empty pizza box on the table in front of him.

“You ate an entire pizza and watched six Muppet movies?”

Thomas stared straight ahead. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just take an Ativan?” Edward asked, already headed towards the lavatory to fetch the bottle of little blue pills.

Thomas groaned. “I was too stressed to remember!”

“And so you watched six Muppet movies instead of sleeping?”

Edward placed the pill bottle in Thomas’s hand and settled in next to him on the sofa, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Thomas took the pill in his mouth and replaced the cap of the bottle, relaxing against Edward’s chest as the credits of The Muppets Take Manhattan rolled.

“How was work?”

“Aside from Hodgson claiming he saw the personification of death? It was…quiet,” Edward said. “It was a nice change.”

Thomas made a sleepy, satisfied sound and reached for the remote control.

“Have you watched Muppets: Most Wanted yet?” Edward asked, yawning.

“It was the first one I watched.”

“Can you put it on again?” Edward asked, lying down against the pillows and pulling Thomas down with him, shifting until they were spooning properly on the sofa.

“Don’t you want to change first?”

“Too tired.”

“Good,” Thomas said, turning over so he was facing the V-neck of Edward’s scrubs. His chest hair poked out from the top of the shirt. “Because you look insanely sexy right now.” He nuzzled his cheek against the exposed hair on his fiance’s chest, sliding his hands up the front of the blue shirt and softly petting the hair that extended from the waistband of his trousers up to his nipples.

“I thought you wanted to watch the Muppets?” Edward smiled.

Thomas didn’t reply, he just pushed him down and kissed him.

* * *

John Irving was shaking when he pushed open the door to Chili’s. He hadn’t been afraid to open a door since another kid in Sunday school (a kid named Cornelius, of all things) told him that the back door of the church led to Hell. John had been first in line to lead the younger kids out during the annual church fire drill, and faced the emergency door with such terror he thought he was going to black out.

“He really thought he was going to lead the kids to Hell!” Cornelius jeered once they were all standing at the muster point.

“It’s a valid concern,” John mumbled, and the embarrassment he felt haunted him for the next twenty years.

But this wasn’t a door to Hell, it was a door to Chili’s, where he would be meeting his new boyfriend’s family for the first time.

“Hey,” Tom said. He was waiting just inside the door. “You ready? We can still leave. We still have time to run.”

“No,” John said, steeling himself. “I’ll do it.”

Tom held his hand as they wove through the tables to the back of the restaurant where the Hartnells sat around an eight-person table.

“Why is there a plastic skeleton in the high chair?”

Tom grimaced. “Eyes forward, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. We’ll get through this.”

“Aw, c’mon Tarty! It’s just a family dinner!” John yelled, loud enough for an old lady to jump and adjust her hearing aid.

“It’s _our _family dinner, Jart. Why did you have to bring Matthew?”

John gasped in horror. “He’s my _son_, Thomas! Your nephew!”

Tom looked at Graham for support.

“He’s our son, Tom. He sits at the table.”

Irving stood uncomfortably watching the exchange. He was thankful when Betsy kicked a chair out and offered him a seat.

“Hello, Tom’s Boyfriend,” she said.

“Hello, Boyfriend’s Sister.”

“Touché.”

John Irving sat down next to Betsy, and it felt like victory.

* * *

Tozer was released from jail in the mid-afternoon, and Officer Cracroft gave him a ride back to the hospital.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked once he was settled in the front seat. The radio was turned down low, and the quiet music made Tozer’s head ache.

“I’m married,” Officer Cracroft said. “Don’t try anything saucy.”

“I was going to ask if you’re satisfied with your union.”

The officer looked at him out of the side of her eyes. “Really?”

“As an integral part of hospital health and safety you’re eligible to be covered by the Sir John Franklin Occupational Health and Safety Union. I’m up for re-election as president,” Tozer said proudly, puffing out his chest so the red star pin on his pocket catches the light.

“Oh,” Officer Cracroft said. “I thought you were a communist.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the hospital.

Manson was on shift when he got back to the office to collect his things. As usual, he had shrunk down the surveillance footage and was reading comics on the computer.

“What’s happening today, Manson?”

“Hate-reading Austen’s run on X-Men again. It gets worse every time I read it, Sol. The slut-shaming is just foul.”

Tozer nodded sagely. “We gotta be able to recognize it so we can call that nonsense out in real life. I don’t want to be the type of man who ignores the call to action just because it doesn’t directly involve me.”

An airy voice piped up from the desk. “You look like the type of man who would have a mushroom farm.”

Tozer turned to see the head psychiatric nurse, Hodgson, standing at the security desk. He looked especially cloud-like today.

“Thank you,” Tozer said, though he wasn’t sure if it was a compliment.

“I would like to make a report,” Hodgson breathed. “I have encountered Death.”

Tozer nodded. “Manson! Morgue run.”

Hodgson shook his head. His hair waved back and forth like blond smoke.

“No, I saw Death _himself._ He was tall! About six feet, wearing a black hooded cloak and heavy clogs. He was pushing an old man with a broken leg and a fake beard in a wheelchair. They were following a nurse, but one I’ve never seen before. She was so young… a child ghost, perhaps?”

Tozer blinked and looked at Manson, who looked absolutely terrified.

“This place is _haunted?_” he asked, terror clear in his voice.

Hodgson lowered his voice to a whisper. “The ghosts are hungry, and they want to live.”

Tozer, having nothing left to offer in this conversation, gathered up his belongings.

“I’m going home,” he said. “Bye.”

Hodgson waved cheerily and pushed open the doors to the A&E, leaving Manson quaking in his steel-toed boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, resolution! The next chapter is the epilogue, but do not fear, for there are more stories to tell in the Chilisverse! This is now a collection that includes (so far) the Great Panic Attack of Edward Jopson nee Little (Ice Castle) and the Strange Courtship of Sol Tozer and George Hodgson ([click here to subscribe to the Amazing Hodge]).


	8. Cosmo'rita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Weekes is one of the best wedding planners in the business, but even he isn't prepared for the Jopson-Little wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! It's a bittersweet feeling, really. I've been peddling Chili's as my magnum opus for so long and it feels strange not to be able to dangle it over everyone's heads anymore. I guess it means it's time for another long, bonkers comedy, right?
> 
> I have to thank everyone for the support they've shown, first by welcoming me into this small yet loving fandom, and then for leaving the greatest bunch of comments I've ever received. Y'all are amazing, and I'm so glad that this fic has made me so many friends.
> 
> It's hard to say goodbye to this universe I've created, so I won't. There's already two Chili's one-shots that I've written, and I don't think I'll give up on the Sir John Franklin Memorial Hospital quite yet. Rest assured, there will be more Hartnell adventures in the future.

It is a beautiful, sunny morning in June but Mr. Weekes is not enjoying the feeling of sunshine beating down on his face. If he had his way, he would be drinking tea in the little back garden that Mr. Morfin tends so carefully with the man sitting in the lawn chair on his right and a soft, far-off look in his eye.

But instead, he and Mr. Morfin are sitting in the parlour of a sizeable country home, overseeing the set-up of a massive white tent in the green field beyond the window and running over the timing of the Jopson-Little wedding for the final time.

It isn’t that either of the grooms are particularly difficult to work with—Thomas is particular, yes, but not fussy, and he’d ended up being more of a help than a hindrance. Edward had appeared on fewer occasions, always with his fiancé at his side and a bewildered look on his face, like he couldn't believe Thomas had agreed to marry him. Mr. Weekes supposed he must have looked the same for months after Mr. Morfin kissed him for the first time in his wood-working shop. He sympathised, then, when Edward approached him alone for the first and only time and said: “I just want it to be nice for him. I don’t need much—give me a pen and a table to sign the certificate and I’ll be happy—but I want him to have the best night of his life. He deserves everything.”

Being a romantic at heart (and an excellent wedding planner), Mr. Weekes took Edward’s words to heart and, with only some minor regrets, he pulled himself out of bed at five in the morning to make sure the future Dr. and Mr. Jopson have the greatest wedding ever.

As he and Mr. Morfin discuss the perfect time to release the doves, Dr. Blanky clomps into the room, shaking his head and throwing a pile of paper on the table.

“Fake invitations,” he growls. “Someone’s planning to crash the wedding.”

Mr. Weekes looks from Dr. Blanky to the poorly-photocopied wedding invites scattered across the wood table. They would have scattered much neater if the table had a fresh coat of varnish. Perhaps after this crisis, he would suggest it to Mr. Ross.

“Dr. Blanky, with all due respect, this is the wedding of a doctor and an HR representative,” Mr. Weekes looks to Mr. Morfin for support. He nods. “It’s not like it’s…” he trails off and looks again to Mr. Morfin.

“Carly Rae Jepsen,” Mr. Morfin offers.

“It’s not like it’s Carly Rae Jepsen’s birthday party!”

“No,” Dr. Blanky says, eyes narrowing. He bites the stem of his unlit pipe. “It’s worse.”

* * *

“Wait, so the _mortician_ stabbed the _janitor?_”

“No, no, don’t be ridiculous,” Dr. Blanky snorts. “The _janitor_ stabbed the _pastor._”

Mr. Weekes consulted the guest list. “And the pastor is…?”

“Hartnell, T.’s plus one.” It takes Mr. Weekes a moment to find the name between Hartnell, J. and Skeleton, Matthew the.

“And the janitor?”

“Not invited, but he’ll show up.”

Mr. Morfin sighs. “Do we know anyone who does last minute event security?”

Dr. Blanky just cackles.

* * *

Thomas and Edward arrive in the late morning, Thomas filled to the brim with nervous energy and Edward wringing his hands and expression that was all nerves and no energy.

They sit together, Thomas holding one of Edward’s trembling hands in his until Francis arrives, sitting on Thomas’s other side and holding his other hand.

“I’m so proud of you boys,” Francis says. Edward swallows and nods while Thomas smiles and laughs, and Mr. Weekes’s team of wedding decorators buzz around them until the house is covered with fairy lights and streamers.

“The dog is a bit unorthodox,” Mr. Weekes says from the entrance hall, voice echoing into the sitting room.

“He’ll do the job of ten men,” comes Dr. Blanky’s voice, and Francis relaxes into the couch cushions behind him.

“Thomas!” he roars. “Get over here! Edward’s sad!”

“I’m not—“ Edward starts, but Dr. Blanky arrives too quickly and crushes him into a hug before he can finish protesting. “’M not sad,” he manages to breathe once Dr. Blanky releases him. 

“Look at you, son! You’ve got sadness written all over your face!”

Thomas pinches Edward’s hip through his joggers. “His mum’s not coming,” he says. “We knew it was a possibility, but she only just turned down the invitation last night, which was,” he raises his voice over Edward’s protests, “_which was _incredibly rude of her.”

“That’s rude,” Francis confirms.

“Very rude,” Dr. Blanky adds.

“It might have been a bit rude,” Edward concedes. He sighs. “I just wanted to dance with her.”

“Will you suffer an old, one-legged man instead?”

Edward freezes, looking to Thomas for help. His fiancé slides an arm around his waist and squeezes. Edward flinches away from the tickle, and it’s enough for him to remember to answer.

“You taught me everything I know,” he says. “There’s no one I’d rather have be a part of my wedding.”

Dr. Blanky laughs and slaps Edward on the back. “You’ve taught me some things, too, lad! Remember that poor sod with the caved-in chest cavity and you suggested the open heart massage? Never done one before, never done one since! I’d love to get my hands inside a nice thoracic cavity again one day.”

With a green tinge to his cheeks, Francis abruptly stands. “Let’s go get ready, Thomas.”

Thomas gives Edward one last peck on the cheek. “You can tell me about hot, wet, thoracic cavities another day, honey,” he whispers, and takes Francis’s arm.

“Right,” Dr. Blanky says. “Let’s go sort out that hairstyle.”

* * *

Mr. Weekes is checking up on the groom (Edward) when Mr. Morfin alerts him that the pastor has arrived.

“Not the one that was stabbed,” Mr. Morfin clarifies. “The one who will be conducting the service.” A short, sharp-faced man stands at the door, holding his hat in his hands. His features are contorted into an expression of pious innocence, though they would look more comfortable fixed in the smirk that lurks beneath the surface of his smile.

“Mr. Lickey,” the pastor introduces himself. There is a small red stain on the lapel of his grey suit jacket.

“Welcome!” Mr. Weekes exclaims. Mr. Morfin escorts Mr. Lickey through the house to the yard, where ten rows of white chairs sit vacant, framing a blue carpet that leads towards a great wooden arch, painted white and adorned with interwoven branches and laced with small blue flowers. Mr. Weekes had laboured over the arch for hours, while Mr. Morfin had begun planting the flowers (that were, he noted with great excitement, the exact colour of Mr. Jopson’s eyes) months before. It was a labour of love, and Mr. Weekes and Mr. Morfin made the decision to gift it to the newlywed couple. It would look lovely over the thin stone path that leads to their little garden.

“Charming,” Mr. Lickey says. “So this is a wedding.”

“Have you not officiated a wedding before, Mr. Lickey?” Mr. Morfin asks.

“Not like this.” The pastor smirks, and Mr. Morfin feels a chill run down his spine.

* * *

Mr. Weekes is checking up on Thomas when the first guests begin to arrive. He can hear the voices from the entrance hall through the wall. First James, who immediately launches into a story about getting lost on the range roads that lead to the estate, then George, who he can barely hear, though he hears the word ‘hand-organ’ quite clearly which means it must be George, and then the Hartnells, all arriving at once in John’s lime green campervan which Graham must have driven since all five of the siblings, Sarah, and John Irving are present and alive.

Thomas has been ready to walk down the aisle for the past hour and now he sits next to Francis on the guest room’s bed, leaning his head on his friend’s shoulder and trying to slow the frantic beating of his heart.

“I’ve spent so long waiting already,” he had said to Francis once he was dressed and had started pacing around the room. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“You’ll be glad you did,” Francis had responded. “I’m glad I’m here with you, Tom.”

“You’ve been so many things to me over the years, Francis. I'm glad that we’ve settled on ‘friends’.”

Francis had laughed and tugged Thomas down from where he restlessly paced. “Let’s see if I can get them all: boss, tormentor, father-figure, drunken uncle, patient, friend?”

“You forgot ‘embarrassing crush,’ but that’s the gist of it.”

“It’s your wedding day, Tommy. We’ll leave that phase out of it.”

“Good plan,” Thomas said sheepishly, and he had laid his head on Francis’s shoulder and waited.

Thomas has almost got his heart rate under control when the front door is flung open and a loud “Bonjour!” echoes through the house.

“No,” he whispers. “No!” Thomas jumps up and grabs Mr. Weekes by the shoulders. “Mr. Weekes, I implore you, please, _please!_ _Do not let him bring the wedding gun.”_

Mr. Weekes’s eyes go wide. “What’s a wedding gun?”

“It’s the gun that nitwit fires at weddings,” Francis answers gruffly. “Or anniversaries.”

Thomas and Francis both take a moment of silence for Jacko the Monkey.

“Now go,” Francis shoos. “Confiscate that gun and save this man’s wedding!”

* * *

Sarah Hartnell is proud of all her children.

Betsy is only sixteen and well on her way to becoming a successful entrepreneur thanks to the generosity of the Thomas Jopson Young Entrepreneur Program, Charles has just been accepted to university, Mary Ann is sitting her final law examinations in September, and Tom has finally managed to snag a nice young man and has been offered a permanent position in Mr. Crozier’s office.

As she leans back in her chair, glass of champagne propped upon a stocking-clad knee, just barely exposed below the appropriate hemline of her suit skirt, a screaming metal bird lands Sarah’s head. She shrieks and punches the offender with her champagne flute, which breaks and instantly becomes a deadly weapon.

“Woah, mom! If this was a real bird you’d have killed it dead!” her beloved eldest son says as he plucks his drone off her head.

Sarah Hartnell may love all of her children equally, but sometimes she forgets about John.

The son in question is sporting a bandage over his nose—broken during another harrowing escape from the Grim Reaper, Betsy explained—and holding his beloved drone, with his even more beloved plastic skeleton, Matthew, strapped to the top. Matthew is wearing a little suit made of silver sequins.

Sarah wasn’t expecting grandchildren for a while, and she certainly wasn’t expecting her first grandchild to be a plastic skeleton named Matthew. But still, he meant a lot to John, so she reached out and shook Matthew’s bony hand from where he floated on the drone.

“Oh, mom! Me and Graham forgot we weren’t married already so we got married last night,” he drops, before stumbling away with the drone in tow. Sarah buries the shattered head of the champagne flute in the ground and goes to find something stronger.

* * *

He and Blanky (and Betsy Hartnell, who had showed up through the window with a bag of hair supplies stolen from Claire’s) managed to get Edward’s hair into some respectable form when Mr. Weekes slips through the door and informs him that the guests are taking their seats. Edward’s heart leaps into his throat.

“What if I can’t do this?” he asks Blanky.

“Don’t be a dumbfuck,” Blanky answers. “The man you’ve been in love with for eight years is waiting for you not to fuck this up.”

Edward moans. “Oh God, I’m going to fuck it up.”

Blanky punches him in the shoulder. “You will _not_ fuck this up, Edward. You _will_ be Dr. Jopson by the end of this night and you _will_ make sweet, sweet love to your husband after partying with the best of us until John Hartnell inevitably breaks a bone and I have to do drunken surgery on him with a butter knife and salad tongs.”

Edward nods stiffly. “I’m going to marry the love of my life today.”

“In five bloody minutes.”

“I’m going to marry the love of my life in five minutes.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to fuck it up?”

“Right. Let’s go get married, lad.”

Edward’s stomach stays knotted as Dr. Blanky escorts him outside. It was decided between him and Thomas that he’d walk down the aisle first. It would make him feel better, Edward claimed, but as he walks between the chairs filled with friends and family and stands under the white arch, he knows it was so he could watch Thomas without having to pay enough attention to things that _weren’t_ Thomas in order to walk in a straight line. And when Thomas rounds the corner with Francis at his side, Edward feels like, for the first time in his life, he has made all the right decisions.

“Hey,” Thomas whispers when he meets him under the arch.

“Hey,” Edward whispers back. He can’t stop smiling, and he has eyes only for Thomas.

Which is why it’s quite a surprise when, in rapid succession, John Hartnell jumps up and yells, “There’s a dead body in those trees!”, the pastor emphatically whispers _fuck_ under his breath, and a plastic skeleton riding a drone descends out of the sky dropping penis-shaped confetti over the wedding guests.

Edward pinches himself to make sure this isn’t a nightmare. Thomas is the one to break eye contact first, spinning towards the pastor, who is backing away slowly.

“It’s Mr. Hickey!”

Mr. Lickey the pastor turns and runs for the trees. Over the clamour among the guests, Edward can hear Harry Goodsir begin to chant _hoose hoose hoose_ as Tuunbaq takes off after the erstwhile janitor-turned-convict-turned-pastor-murderer. Mr. Weekes clutches his chest and leans on Mr. Morfin for support.

“What do we do now, Jack?” Edward hears him say.

“If only we had a pastor among the wedding guests.”

Tom Hartnell stands, one hand wrapped around his boyfriend’s arm. “My man’s a pastor!” Sarah Hartnell nods proudly. “He can save the wedding!”

And so a very nervous John Irving takes the place of Mr. Lickey, and he begins.

“I don’t have anything prepared, obviously, and I’ve only officiated a couple of weddings before this one, but, um, I think I’d like to—to talk a little bit about finding love in the places you least expect to.”

Edward gives a supportive nod, and he takes Thomas’s hands in his own.

“For those lucky enough to find it, love means everything. One day you’re on your own, thinking that your life is enough, and you’re satisfied with everything you have. And then you meet someone, and you suddenly start to wonder if life has ever been enough for you before, because there’s no way it will be now. When you fall in love, _really, properly_ in love, you give up a part of yourself willingly, because you know that what you’ll receive in return will be worth it, a thousand times over. And when you’re together, the piece of you that your partner holds, and the piece of them that you hold, fit together like two halves, and the world seems a little brighter on its darkest days, and turns a little slower when life comes rushing at you from all directions. I’ve gotten to know you, Thomas and Edward, over the last six months, and if there’s anything I know about you two, it’s how you say “I love you” in so many different ways. When Thomas brings Edward lunch at work, it’s in the way their hands brush when Edward takes the container. And when Edward pours the tea, it’s in the way he never lets a drop spill on Thomas’s side of the table. And it’s even in their silences, how they breathe together and let their shoulders brush on every exhale. And there’s something so immense about saying ‘I love you,’ no matter how many times you’ve said it before. And, in the words of The Proclaimers on marriage: ‘Yeah, it’s just a piece of paper, but it says “I love you”.’ It’s with great honour that I offer you this new way to say ‘I love you.’ Thomas, do you take Edward Little to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

“And Edward Little, do you take Thomas Jopson to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Edward hasn’t looked away from Thomas once since Irving began speaking, and he doesn’t now. He can’t, not when Thomas’s eyes are shining a clear blue in the high afternoon sun and the smile plastered across his face is bright enough to light up the darkest room.

“I do.”

* * *

In the time between the ceremony and the reception, the police are called to cart away the body of the dead pastor that John Hartnell found via drone in the ravine.

“Matthew’s first corpse discovery,” John says adoringly. Sarah returns to the bar for another gin & ginger. The big white dog is sitting next to it, panting heavily. He has blood around his mouth.

“Some wedding, eh _mon chere?_”

A handsome silver-haired man stands in front of her holding a glass of red wine between two fingers. Sarah looks around just to be sure he’s talking to her.

“There’s been at least one more murder than at my wedding,” she says.

“Ah, you’re married?” the man asks. He looks disappointed for a moment, but then: “Is your husband, perhaps… dead?”

“Yes,” she answers flatly.

“Ah, fantastique! I mean, quelle tragique! Quite similar in the old francais, you know.”

Sarah frowns.

“My name is Henry, but those close to me call me Dundy. Would you like to get closer to me?”

“I’m fine here,” Sarah says. Henry may be handsome, but he’s clearly a dumbass.

“Well, perhaps you would like to see my secret weapon.” Henry gestures towards his crotch.

“This is wedding, Henry. Please control yourself.”

“C’est bon! It is a wedding! Which is why—“ he extracts a rhinestone-covered gun from the front of his pants and Sarah hates that the first thing she thinks is that it matches Matthew’s wedding suit – “I have brought the wedding gun!”

She shouldn’t ask. She should retreat and go hide indoors, or build a barricade of children between her and this crazy man.

“What’s a wedding gun?” she asks, and mentally kicks herself.

“I’m glad you asked! JAMES!” he hollers, and another handsome man peels away from the crowd and joins him.

“The lovely—“

“Sarah.”

“The lovely Sarah requests a demonstration.”

“I didn’t,” she says. She knows how projectile weapons work. She raised John, for God’s sake.

Henry ignores her, and loads the glittery gun with a single round, aims at the trees, and fires.

A scream rises from the ravine.

“Is that it? You fire your Barbie gun at a tree and call it the wedding gun?”

“Oui,” Henry says proudly.

Out of the trees, they spot a small man clutching his buttocks and running towards them.

“I’ve been shot!” he cries. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah can see Tuunbaq raise his head and sniff the air.

“He should run,” she says, but Henry has already disappeared and is lurking near Lady Jane Franklin behind the dessert table.

“He should run,” she says again, but she bends down next to Tuunbaq and whispers _hoose_ in his ear. He takes off like a fluffy white dart shot out of a wedding gun towards Hickey. She climbs to steps to the deck of the house, where she finds Mary Ann.

“Can you call the police back, honey? The murderer is over there.” A muffled yell comes from his direction. “You better ask for the ambulance, too.”

* * *

Dinner is ready, and everyone is seated in the tent. Edward is still considering grabbing Thomas’s hand, running away, and eating a pizza alone in one of the guest bedrooms, but Thomas is laughing at something Francis just said and Blanky stomps on his foot with his prosthetic leg, so Edward stands and calls for attention.

“For those of you who don’t know, I, uh, struggle with anxiety.”

Blanky laughs loudly from his place beside him.

“And sometimes I think every decision I make is the wrong one. But saying ‘I do’ today was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve loved you since I first saw you, Thomas, and I plan on loving you until my heart physically stops.”

“Then I’ll restart it for you!” Blanky interrupts, and the guests laugh. Blanky flexes his fingers in a manner that was threatening to everyone except Edward, who had seen him squeeze a man’s heart back to life with that very motion.

Edward’s eyes are alight when he continues. “And then Dr. Blanky will restart it, and I’ll have the privilege of loving you for even longer. I’m the happiest man in the world right now, Thomas. I love you so much.”

Thomas stands up next to him and hugs him tightly.

“Kiss!” James yells from the first table. They do.

“Kiss more!” George exclaims. They do.

“Kiss again!” Francis says, not to be outdone by James. They do.

“Come on, we have to save something for tonight,” Thomas laughs politely.

“That’s right,” Blanky says. “Me and Francis have prepared a little pre-dinner entertainment for you anyways.”

He pulls a banjo from under the table, and points to John Hartnell.

“Hit it, Jart.”

The lights dim, and Blanky begins to pluck the banjo strings. Francis has produced a microphone from somewhere on his person, and he starts to sing.

_Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what’s on the other side?_

“Oh my God,” Thomas moans, and he buries his face in his hands.

_Rainbows are visions. They’re only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide._

Thomas’s ears are a vivid, tomato red, and Edward laughs at the absurdity of the entire serenade. Francis must have been practicing his best Kermit the Frog impression for weeks, with Blanky shredding on the banjo as they drank non-alcoholic Budweiser in Francis’s garage.

_So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it, but I know they’re wrong—wait and see._

With no other option left but to join Thomas in red-faced shame, Edward joins Francis in singing

_Someday we’ll find it_

_The Rainbow Connection_

_The lovers, the dreamers, and me_

“I can’t believe you,” Thomas says from behind his hands.

“It’s sweet of them to remember your favourite song.”

“_It was supposed to be a secret!”_

Edward takes Thomas in his arms. “Would you like me to embarrass myself further so no one pays attention to you and your love of Kermit the Frog?”

“No,” Thomas mumbles.

“I will. I would do that for my husband.”

“You’re my husband,” Thomas says in disbelief. “_My _husband.”

Edward’s laugh is drowned out by the final note of the song. “Wow,” he says.

Francis takes a bow and points to the back of the tent where Mr. Diggle stands in wait, ladle in hand. “Let’s eat!”

* * *

By eight o’clock, dessert has been cleared away and the soft grass that the tent stands on has turned into a dance floor. DJ D-JART mans the music station (his bones are too fragile to dance on hard ground) with the one condition of “No Space Jam.” Graham had held him as he shook with rage, reminding him that yes, he can walk down the aisle to Space Jam at their unofficial wedding in Sarah Hartnell’s backyard. John had cheered up after that, and deviated from the set wedding playlist only for certain requests.

“Play that song,” Francis asks. “The one the kids like.”

D-JART shakes his head. “Sorry, pops. I don’t know what you mean.”

“The one by Liz. You know, about the juice.”

Thomas dances by, leading Edward in a flawless waltz. “He means Juice,” he says over the rise of the music.

D-JART salutes and queues the song.

* * *

It’s well after a couple rounds of fireball shots and champagne toasts when Edward whirls Thomas around so he can see the lone figure standing near the back of the tent.

“How did he get in?” he asks. Edward has never met Des Voeux personally, but he’s heard of him. His sleazy, skee-ball-playing ways are well known to Thomas.

“Oh no,” Thomas says, shaking Edward’s arms off him. “I’m not letting him ruin my wedding.”

“Hang on Tom, we can grab Harry and the dog, or Sol, or—“ but Thomas has already stomped his way over to where Des Voeux lurks.

“Jopson, glad to catch you,” Des Voeux says as he oozes up to Thomas.

Thomas doesn’t bother to hide his distaste. “This would be the place to catch me, Charles. It’s my wedding.”

“Call me Chuck. I’m rebranding.”

“Are you, now?” Thomas circles him until Des Voeux is backed against a table and Thomas is facing the dance floor. His new husband, with Hodgson’s help, is attempting a handstand in the midst of the crowd while Hodgson’s clavier cover of “Uptown Funk” blasts from the speakers.

“Excuse me, Chuck. I have to go enjoy my wedding.”

“Hold up, Jopson. I just have a question.”

Thomas stops and takes a deep breath. He raises an eyebrow quizzically, just like Crozier had taught him to.

Des Voeux takes no notice of the disdainful eyebrow.

“I only question your sources in the yearly report that you and Crozier put out last month. You have at least one fact wrong-“

“You are aware,” Thomas says patiently, “that this is my wedding?”

“Wedding or not, your citations are incomplete—“

He is cut off with the loud _crack_ of Thomas’s fist connecting with his jaw.

“Ow,” he says.

“Get the fuck out before I count to ten,” Thomas says. “I’ve knocked out bigger slimeballs than you.”

Des Voeux oozes back the way he came, and Thomas moonwalks his way into Edward’s embrace just in time for the next dance.

“That was incredibly sexy, Tom,” he whispers, holding him close. “You should punch people more often.”

“I thought you’d rather have me as a lover than a fighter,” Thomas purrs in his ear. He pulls back, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Time to disappear from our own wedding?”

“That’s up to you, Dr. Jopson.”

Edward pulls Thomas by the hand, leading him out of the tent and up towards the house. “After you, Mr. Jopson,” he says.

* * *

Francis has nearly given up on saying goodbye to the newlyweds before he and James leave the estate. It’s Edward who emerges from the master bedroom first, surprising Francis.

“We’re heading out, Edward,” Francis says. “Is Thomas alive in there?”

Edward ignores him and uncovers the tray of leftover desserts. He stuffs three cookies in his mouth and chews impossibly slowly.

“Yeah,” he says after swallowing. “I’ll go get him.”

“It’s fine, Edward,” Francis says. “I’ll just pop in and say goodbye.”

Edward’s eyes go wider than two dinner plates. “Wait, no, I’ll—“

Francis is already down the hallway and pushing open the door to the master bedroom when Edward catches up to him, balancing the tray of desserts and his own shame when Francis finds Thomas tied to the headboard with multicoloured silk scarves.

“Finally, Ned!” Thomas says, squirming and naked on the bedspread. “It’s my turn to be filled up with your hot, sticky—“ Thomas cranes his neck up and catches sight of his audience.

All three of them are silent.

“He likes it, I swear,” Edward says. The silence that follows is even more awkward.

“Are those magician’s scarves?” James asks from where he’s squeezed into the hallway behind Edward.

“Yes,” Thomas says. “George left them behind.”

“Huh,” James says thoughtfully. “Right, we’re off! Don’t have too much fun!” He grabs Francis by the elbow and leads the man outside.

They sit in the brisk morning air until Francis comes to resemble a man once more, rather than a tomato wearing a man’s skin.

“Really, Francis, what did you expect?”

“Not that.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t see the utter mess dripping down Edward’s legs-“

Francis lets out a wail and curls in on himself.

“They’re grown men, Francis. Get a hold of yourself!”

“But they’re… they’re…”

“What? Your boys? Your sons?”

“_They’re kinkier than us.”_

James snorts. “Than you, maybe. Not me.”

They sit for another ten minutes before Francis manages to shake away the melancholy that gripped him so deeply.

“Let’s go,” he says, holding the car door open for James.

“Shall we get lunch?” James asks.

Francis hums and starts the car. He’s a mile onto the highway before James realizes they’re going the wrong way.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere special.”

“Fr_aun_cis, please. You know I hate surprises.”

“And I know that’s a lie. You love surprises.”

James shrugs and concedes. He does love surprises.

“Is it a good surprise?”

Francis looks over at him. “I’m not taking you to the bloody vet, if that’s what you’re on about.”

It was exactly what James was thinking, but he doesn’t admit it. He falls dejectedly back in his seat and pouts. Francis will tell him once he sees the pout. He always does.

“Perk up, J_ea_mes,” Francis sighs. “I’m taking you to that Portuguese place you like.”

“Francis, you know there are no good Portuguese restaurants in the city.”

“I know,” Francis says, switching lanes and taking the exit marked AIRPORT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Don’t worry, Thomas and Edward packed James’s bag for him, including the poorly-hidden engagement rings hidden in his sock drawer. They did not, however, pack Francis’s bag, which means James will have to endure two weeks’ worth of Hawaiian shirts that have escaped a slow, compostable death in Des Voeux’s flowerbeds. The poor guy must be wondering why his flowers never grow by now.

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to apologize, especially for making Le Vesconte a fake French Canadian. Send me your chili's memes at bluebacchus.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [5 Times Second Lieutenant Henry Thomas Dundas Le Vesconte Addressed Me By Name And Told Me He Was Going To Marry My Mom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683831) by [drowninglovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninglovers/pseuds/drowninglovers)


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